It's Only a Paper Moon
by DaydreamingSophia
Summary: 1940s-1950s AU In NYC, cabs and cars fly through the streets like pixies searching for hiding lovers. The War has ended and new life of luxury and endless possibilities infects those who find themselves in the year 1949. We have a painter, Sansa Stark who through her friend Margaery, strikes up a commission for a portrait of the world's current Heavyweight Champion, The Hound.
1. Chapter 1

"Can I borrow your lipstick, dear? I seem to have forgotten mine."

Not looking at Sansa but with her hand extended in waits for the lipstick, Margaery leaned against the wall-long vanity with her face practically pressed to the mirror while she examined her appearance. Margaery always prided herself on a flawless appearance and tonight was not the night that she would disappoint the gossip-hungry public.

The room was crowded with the soft noises of fellow women as they adjusted their dresses, powdered their noses, and idly chattered. It was a comfortable place amongst women adorned with soft smiles and compliments. The opening and closing of compacts and lipsticks. The swishing of gowns. The giggles between friends. With a muscle-memory movement, Sansa, seated in her high-backed chair, placed the deep red lipstick in her friends palm. "You are lucky that I chose this drastic of a red tonight or you would be out on the street begging for a swipe from every red lipped woman who had the misfortune to cross your path."

Margaery gave Sansa a devilish grin before reminding her that this particular lipstick was originally her own thank you.

Glancing at her friend, Sansa had to admit that Margaery really did live up to image that everyone projected onto her- perfect and unafraid. Being widowed, royally divorced and, to the frustration of high society, still stunningly young and not looking to settle down, she ran the inner circles of New York City. Margaery was raised in a more than comfortable upbringing. Her family was that of old money- money and political influence that could be traced back for centuries. High society meant high expectations of keeping the money amongst those in a place of power and increasing one's status. Being so rooted in upper class, Margaery was engaged and married by the time she was 16 which was all arranged by her ambitious grandmother.

One of the only commonalities Margaery shared with the everyday woman, was that while left at home to keep the country running, Margaery found herself one normal afternoon with a letter in her hands that decimated her tight held dreams of what her post war life could consist of. What she dreamed of and hoped for when the war ended had perished. He promised to come back to her. They all did. Tragedy's well played hand snuffed out the light of this young man, who was so full of fun and life, as well as so many others' who would not be returning home- not truly. Sometimes just a flag and nothing more. That second spot on the swing would remain unoccupied now. Babies would never know what their father's voice sounded like. Mothers had to bury sons. Sisters mourned brothers' laughing faces that would fade from memory one day. They were not coming back.

This spoonful of mischief of a man would no longer be a thorn in the sides of the older traditionalists. The other hand that Tragedy played was one of mutual affection. The couple were genuinely fond of each other. Caring, tender, and not at all sexually interested in one another, they were the perfect match for people such as themselves. If such a match as this was to be made and romantic love was missing or impossible, then this was the next best thing. Maybe even better. Good friends rarely came out of such circumstances and far too often did the cards deal indifference and resentment.

Loved by the public but not his family, the man had no relatives to willingly pass his fortune to. When his will was read, everything: the money, the villas, the expansive properties, the businesses were all handed over to Margaery at eighteen.

Famously, the young woman's next forced betrothal didn't fare quite so well, but that really depended on which party was questioned on the matter. This second man, described as such by a majority, was scum. From the outside he appeared to have everything, a successful family, a promising future, and a gallant disposition. Sometimes women saw these lies too late. After a hushed up domestic police report and an embezzlement scandal, Margaery acquired an ample pile of money to keep silent about the entire affair and even more to her delight, a file for divorce. It was no surprise that despite the confidentiality papers, the hushed incident still managed to make front page news. Turned out he was a draft dodger too.

It would be a mild understatement to say that Margaery simply enjoyed finding herself in this new situation. She thrived with the independance from her family. She was her own woman and her grandmother no longer tried to arrange what men she would or would not have in her life. She was not tied down to what a husband would have wanted her to be doing with her time either. Margaery was her own woman.

Placing the returned lipstick back in her clutch, Sansa studied her own hard earned appearance. Auburn hair ran to the small of her back and shone in loose curls softly framing her face in just the right way. It was not particularly in style for the times to have such lengths of hair, but Sansa could never bring herself to cut it. Moreover, people always fawned over how beautiful and unique her hair was. Sansa's face was made up with a perfected wing, mascara that made her lashes even longer than normal, a light rouge that indicated a constant state of a subtle blush, and the burgundy red lipstick painted on full lips. It was more extravagant compared to her normal makeup routine, though even Sansa had to admire herself tonight due to Margaery's supervision.

Hours were spent earlier this week in a back and forth cadance of thoughts over how Sansa would have her hair styled, how she was going wear her makeup, and what jewels would be up to par for such an occasion. Only the opal would do she decided. Such a grand event called for the most grandiose necklace. As her mother would say, the two women were "dressed to the nines" this evening but would any less be accepted? Now the dress, this fairytale of tulle upon layers of tulle sculpted as petals made Sansa feel like the Queen of some northern land. Like she was something precious to be worshipped. Like she was kissed by moonbeams. It was already decided upon by Margaery that she was to wear this dress and there would be no exceptions or alternatives. It was a pale robin's blue with luxurious sapphire jewels meticulously placed that only accentuated the warmth of her hair and the blue depths of her eyes.

It was a dream that even Sansa had to buy into wearing and it was one that she was more than happy to dream if only for the night. I will step into this fairytale if only for tonight. She had thought when she stepped into it. Not every evening was Opening Night and this one was all the more special because it also happened to be the charity event of the year. Only the elite of New York City were invited. Those most in the spotlight and the top of the top of biggest names were in attendance. She could have fainted two months ago when Margaery announced that she, Sansa Stark, would be her plus one, because she found "all of the white collared business men beyond boring at the moment."

'Why would I bring any stiff shirt with a bowtie when I could have my most darling friend on my arm instead? You are far too stunning to not be there and the whole event would be lacking without you.'

"Who is it you need to speak with tonight, Margie?" Sansa said while delicately pulling her pale elbow length gloves on. She knew her friend always had a list of names to cross off whenever she went out in public. Whether it be business or pleasure, that depended on the night. Sansa was always happy to participate in polite conversation and found it to be similar to a game of how many people could they speak to that night and how much could she learn about them.

"Oh you know the usual, dear. I need to speak with the Major since my last letter about the new soup kitchen has gone unanswered." Margaery mused as she turned to face her friend with her hip leaning against the vanity for support. "There is also Sam and his new wife Joan. I would wager my last fur they will hunt me down at some point to inquire about catering for my Christmas Ball. They were dearly smarted when I went with Paul's company last year, but how could I have turned down those brown doe eyes?" With that the woman took Sansa hand in hers and drew her from the seat.

They stepped out of the powder room into the dark red carpeted hallway amongst the other women who were eager to return to the mayhem. There were wives dolled up for their husbands, young socialites from notable families in pursuit of husbands, and possibly more than a few accompanying men tonight in an unknowing (or sometimes knowing) housewife's place. All were illuminated by the soft lights positioned along the way to the reception hall like fairies leading the way to a grand feast. Tonight, no matter a woman's age or standing, it was not hard to feel like a little girl again at ball.

 _Paul, quick to laugh but quick to make excuses and lie_. "You did- in February," Sansa quickly reminded her friend although she was quite sure she did not need reminding.

"Nonetheless, I miss his cherry tarts but probably not as much as he misses mine!" Margaery retorted with a wiggle of her eyebrows that was rewarded with a fit of giggles from both women. Arm in arm, they sauntered through the masses.

Entering the reception hall, Sansa looked up with wonder. It did not matter how many times she found herself here, the extravagance of the Metropolitan Opera House left her breathless each time. With grand ceilings that seemed to glance the heavens, chandeliers that sparkled like a girl's dream of full gowns and soft kisses between lovers, and intricate molding that grew from the walls like exotic foliage, it was all entirely perfect to Sansa. This was one of the first buildings Sansa had visited when she moved to New York City a few years ago and it would remain her favorite for years to come. It was artful and classic just like her. Who would not be inspired?

"Miss Sansa," Margaery said, pulling Sansa out of her daydreams of flying creatures and lustful gods, "I think we have just enough time to enjoy a drink and find a little trouble before we take our seats, how about it?" And it was like clockwork that a server with a tray of champagne passed them.

"To the Opera!" toasted Sansa after she thanked the server.

"To tonight suddenly having a lot more potential," Margaery murmured clinking her glass against Sansa's.

The champagne was a welcome sweetness of bubbles in Sansa's mouth and sent an oh so needed sensation of warmth and giddiness through her. It took her a moment to notice what Margaery's toast was aimed at- or better who it was aimed at.

Two men in their best tuxes were close to reaching them when Sansa turned left. They would be hard to miss even in the chaos of the room. Eyes seemed to follow them. Excitement radiated from each cluster of people they passed. The smaller of the men wore a pristine, fitted black tux with subtle stripes and a bowtie and the much larger in one of a deep grey it was almost black with a matching bowtie as well.

Meeting the larger man's eyes, Sansa only then felt how intense his gaze was on her. Actually felt it. It was as if he was absorbing the energy directed towards him and pulsing it towards Sansa. She was used to men looking at her but not like this. Not with so much heat that she felt like the afternoon sun warmed her skin when she knew very well the Moon had found her place amongst the buildings. His presence demanded attention and he would not be denied.

Sansa had seen his picture in the papers more than a couple of times, but that did not stop the gasp that unbiddengly escaped her lips upon seeing the gnarled scars in person. They adorned his left side of his face from forehead to a little way down his neck. They were twisted scars and not pretty to look upon. Embarrassed, Sansa hoped he had not noticed her temporary look of shock that must have crossed her face. She hoped he would have chalked her rudeness up to something akin to being a little starstruck considering he more than likely inspired similar looks regularly from the public. Walking through the crowd, murmurs of conversation and wide-eyed double takes broke out from each group the men had passed.

World renowned, he was boxing's latest heavyweight champion and known in and out of the ring as, The Hound. As far as she could recall, none of the articles on him ever showcased how his scars were given to him which further added to his shroud of mystery that captivated the public. The Hound was larger than she would have imagined, towering over most in the room and filling out his tux better than any man Sansa had seen before- even during the War.

"Margaery Tyrell, you are a vision for these tired, old eyes," the smaller of the men beamed as the two lightly embraced and kissed one another on both cheeks. Margaery laughed as he spun her in a circle by the hand and indulged in the sight of her at such close proximity. Her dress was a glamorous ruby silk fitted to her form with a low back and slit in the leg. A shapely woman, Margaery had earned similar, but in Sansa's opinion, less tasteful leers from all corners of the room. "Or do you go by another last name again? That would be a damn shame and a lot less thrilling," he said as they separated.

There is a story here that I do yet not know about, Sansa thought as this was a side of Margaery she only saw when the woman was not yet planning her next conversation with someone more interesting. Though no one could ever tell unless they saw Margaery when she was not "on."

The man showering her friend with compliments had a permanent smirk on his face that suggested he was up to something but it made Sansa smile regardless. His was not a smile she had seen plastered on men's faces once they built up the courage to initiate a conversation with them, but it also was not one born of smugness either. This man reminded her of a scruffy terrier that one of her neighbors had growing up. Full of energy and playfulness. She wondered if her friend had a dog in her girlhood and if it might have been something like this man.

Coyly slapping him on the arm, Margaery, pouring her liquid charm all but sang, "Oh honey, quite a few have been trying but I am still a Tyrell until I decide otherwise." She took a sip of her champagne and feigned a bored tone, "I find most them to be far too dull these days anyways, I fear. Soon I may have to find a new hobby!"

The Hound let out an amused snort that drew Sansa's eyes back to him. She found that his were on her again, and from the feel of them, have not been sidetracked for long. His presence felt even larger standing right in front of her and despite being a tall woman herself, she had to tilt her head slightly to match his eyes. Some men matched her in height and most of the others matched hers in heels, but not him. He was a tower of a man.

The spell between the two seemed to break because the smaller man, turned his attention to her after a moment and Margaery grabbed Sansa's arm saying, "Oh how rude of me! I forgot introductions in all of this excitement amongst us old friends. Bronn, darling, this is my truest friend, Miss Sansa Stark."

Tucking her clutch under her elbow that held the champagne, Sansa extended her right hand for this gentleman called Bronn to kiss while Margaery added, "Bronn Blackwater is the manager of the impressive monster of a man next to him, The Hound. They are partners in a gym ownership as well as soon to be restaurant owners which is opening in… late Spring!" Margaery's eyebrows rose in easy anticipation.

"Margaery, you still have all of your sources I see. I swear he may look and fight like a demon I swear he ," Bronn responded as he elbowed his companion.

With a smirk, a roll of his eyes, and in a deeper voice than Sansa anticipated, the larger man said, "Don't let any of my fellow competitors hear that or the two of us are out on the streets." The Hound shifted his weight forward to kiss Margaery's hand first as she let out a hearty laugh.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir" Sansa breathed as he took her own hand. In hands that dwarfed her own and with a press of his lips he furthered, "My friends call me Sandor Clegane outside of the ring, not sir."

As his head rose, he looked into Sansa's eyes again and offered the hand still engulfed in his a light squeeze.

It was broken when Margaery chimed, "Miss Sansa here is not only my dearest friend but also the most fantastic painter. Best portraiture in New York I say and more should! Before I know it, all of my walls will be covered with her art."

"It seems we are not the most impressive or best looking people here then, Sandor." Bronn said with a wink towards Sansa.

"Margaery is too kind I promise you-" Sansa flustered as she fingered with her champagne glass.

"No, I swear I am completely unbiased!" her friend interrupted. "Last month, Sansa painted me the most divine landscape that breathed a whole new life into my tea room. I have been drowned in compliments for it since. It was so wonderful that the only way I could repay her was with this gown. Tonight, Sansa may be more beautiful than the painting itself."

 _Laying it on a little thick, Margie._ Sansa was sure she was the shade of her lipstick now looked at the floor.

Breaking the attention on Sansa, Bronn abruptly clapped his hands together once and then again and pointed at his partner with gusto. "The restaurant! We need a few of these paintings. This is perfect. They will really class up the place!"

"Oh that is a fabulous idea! You must see her work. It is delicate, it is sophisticated, classic-" The two were once again only had eyes for each other as they conspired.

"And!" Margaery went on truly inspired with arms outstretched painting the scene, "she can paint a portrait of Sandor to be the featured piece!"

 _Oh my god her champagne is spilling everywhere… Wait, what?_

The two were practically bouncing up and down like school children when Sandor intruded, "Hold on now. The goal is to have people eat at this joint not to scare them away."

Sansa recognized the scowl on his face that was often in the papers. He could be handsome if her did not frown so much.

Before Margaery or Bronn could open their mouths Sansa blurted, "I would love to paint you, sir."

Sandor glared hard at her. "You do not have to lie to me to spare a dog's feelings, girl," Sandor growled. "I am sure there are plenty of pretty and delicate things you would rather spend your time looking at."

Lifting her head and steadying herself with a deep breath for confidence, Sansa met his eye. For the first time that night she noticed the stormy gray of them guarded under heavy brows and the raven hair that threatened to hide his face. There was pain veiled there, a pain that was not present a moment before. But there was also anger that was threatening to spill out as well. "I am speaking honestly and would see it as an honor, sir. I have never painted a champion boxer before."

For an instance, she believed he was going to yell at her but then he turned his glare from Sansa to Bronn and said, "If you want a portrait hung so badly, hang your own. Mine will not be there for people to point and gawk at." With that, The Hound retreated from their group and was swallowed within the crowd once more.

Sansa watched as he stalked away and earned startled and admiring looks from men and women alike. As he rounded to the stairs and disappeared from view, the room seemed to dull just a shade. Like the sun stepping behind a cloud and the wind picking up again. She was watching the space he left when Bronn brought her back to their trio with his hand invading in her viewline. "Here is my card and here is his. I am going to buy some of your paintings no matter what he barks. He'll come around. How can I contact you, love?"

Sansa dug through her clutch and handed him her own card.

Since Margaery began making it a game to win her commissions, Sansa had made it a habit to keep a few on hand when they went out.

"Alan Stone? That's an interesting way to spell Sansa Stark," said Bronn as he turned it over in his hand.

"It's my pseudonym. I apologize but I usually only give those to people merely interested in my completed works and those who I do not consider friends. I am sure it would not surprise you hear people tend to admire a man's work more," Sansa pursed as she shut her clutch with a snap. "I must remember to get my others reprinted. I apologize again."

"Alan Stone or Sansa Stark, I am buying from whoever can make Margaery smile like that." With that he kissed Margaery's hand and said to her, "I'll make sure I see you around, honey." A wicked grin played on his face as he too retreated.

Sansa leered at Margaery with raised eyebrows and a giggle that tinkled as their glasses had minutes before.

"Oh do not give me that look, Sansa. I know that look," Margaery huffed as she polished off her glass. "Bronn is simply an old friend from during the War."

"A bit familiar."

"I am not the one who set off the big bad wolf," Margaery retorted as the two started moving with the crowd. A sea of dress shoes and gowns as they politely shuffled to their seats. "I almost landed you another commission! You know, I am certain it has the do with his scars because he is apparently very touchy when it comes to the subject. Does not like being asked about them and will not take a posed photo from what I have gathered in the gossip section. Really, you would think he would play them up for the sake of his career."

Up the staircase and down a hall, the two women entered their designated balcony. It was on the second level and four booths left from center stage. If the reception hall was grand then the auditorium was truly divine. There were two older couples who would be sharing the space with them. The two women participated in polite conversation with them about who the featured performers were of the night, about scandals that had been whispered concerning a member of the orchestra who was sleeping with one of the directors, and about what the rumors were regarding how the show would be generally received.

Sansa found herself people watching as she always did once the usual courteous exchanges naturally died down. She watched enraptured by how the orchestra tuned their instruments and handled them with care that would suggest they were an additional limb. How the pianist was double and triple checking his sheet music and stealing small looks at the petite violinist seated three rows to his right. How in the section four to the of them left three young girls sat with their mother. Two were twins with matching periwinkle dresses while the older reminded her of herself when she was thirteen. When she tried to carry herself like her mother and be seen as a woman and not a child. A proper little lady. It brought a small smile to her lips but sadness that longed to tell her girlhood self to stay a child as long a possible, because the next few years only brought a yearning for things past. The general hum of the crowd acted like a numbing device as Sansa glided within her thoughts.

As the lights began to dim, so did the volume of voices and this was one of Sansa favorite parts about coming to the Opera. Nothing was the same as how it felt to be in crowd of people enjoying the same thing. Electricity was in the air and the reaction as a mass was one of anticipation and excitement. Soft murmurs bounced across the hall. The orchestra sang its first notes. The curtain rose.

It was promptly 28 minutes into the show and what started as a small feeling turned into a desperate pang. The champagne. Sansa usually knew better. Do not, absolutely do not drink any alcohol before leaving for a car ride, before a meeting, and definitely not before the Opera because to her peril, Sansa had a tiny bladder when alcohol entered the mix. It was known. She would not hold off until intermission and she could had thrown herself off the balcony for her lapse on an opening night.

 _Why must champagne be so spiteful when all I have ever done was love it._

Gathering her bag with an internal groan, Sansa rose. After a knowing glance from Margaery, Sansa shook her head in response to Margaery's silent offer to accompany her. She could manage it alone and did not want her friend to miss what was happening on stage on her behalf. With Margaery staking out the position, Sansa would have a thorough recap of what was missed when intermission began.

Marching through the dim lit corridors of the upper level, Sansa moved with a focused familiarity and the soft swishing of her gown. She attended plenty of performances in this building, but what gave her confidence that she could be back to her seat in no less than five minutes was her extra knowledge of the upper floor. Some of the offices and executive lounges were located on the upper level and Sansa made note that there was a single room bathroom that was much more accessible than having to walk downstairs with the rest of the public. This information was given space in her mind on account of numerous meetings with board members or their wives because they were commissioning a portrait from her or buy a piece from Alan Stone.

Cornering off the the left, Sansa made her way down a narrow hall that was illuminated with a few sconces and a soft light that spilled from underneath a closed door. The sounds of the opera could could be heard but more muffled here. The restroom was placed at the end of the hall on the left to create more privacy so that those important enough did not have to mix with tourists or attendants. Slipping in, Sansa was rewarded with a sweet relief and a brief moment to touch up her lipstick. Maybe she should have taken Margaery up on her offer because relieving herself in this dress was like fighting a never ending war against jewel and tulle and fabric. Her face was mildly flushed from the effort.

She peered out the window to admire the Moon. The Harvest moon looked brightly down on her with a welcoming fullness.

When she stepped out in the hallway, she might not have noticed that the office light that had once dribbled onto the floor only a few minutes before, was now missing, leaving the small hallway duller than before. Muted colors and soft edges. If her mind was not so wrapped up in fine gowns and soaring voices, she might have remembered that she was afraid of the dark and what might linger in the shadows. All of this might have escaped her notice had a large shape not made the same left she had minutes before. If he had not come drifting down the hall which she was now aware came to an end a few feet at her back.

A small tingle ran through her from the top of her head to the bottom of her heeled feet. Was it fear or something rather different? Larger than any man had the right to be, he moved with an unexpected softness in his steps. He looked almost mystical with his profile falling in and out of shadow as if they were in the woods under a canopy of trees and bright moonlight and not in some hallway in a major city. His features seemed to soften as well as his scars, but that did not diminish the sharpness of his jaw or the hook of his nose. It did not make him less beast than man. Broad and angular, his face was serious like stonework and fixed on Sansa with intent.

As he closed the gap between them, he reached his arm out so that his fingertips brushed the wall and then found his pocket. With little space separating them, Sansa could hear his soft breathing, could see the rise and fall and rise of his broad chest, noticed that strands of his hair were resting on his burnt cheek, and could smell his earthy cologne that mixed with a lingering whiskey. It made her think of motorbikes and the time she spent the week on a country farm with a family friend. Nights occupied on the front porch gazing at the stars and sipping on wine when she was too young to do so.

For a moment, Sansa thought they would stand in this purple silence for hours only regarding each other never speaking until they were both turned to stone and remained in the building until they tore it down to build a new one. Her breath quickened.

"I changed my mind," The Hound said and it was a soft, deep rumble of a voice. It was as if he was afraid that the walls would overhear and this was a private exchange. It was meant for them. His eyes were a darker grey than they had been in the reception room though they were no less guarded than before as he studied her face and then down her body and back again.

Sansa found herself breathless and a flash of heat ran through her but she could not explain why. _Changed his mind? What could he have changed his mind about._

Maybe confused by her silence or frustrated by it, he shifted his weight and rasped, "Do I frighten you so much, girl?"

A flush surely played across her face. Coming back to herself, Sansa let out a breath and regained her thoroughly trained courtesies. "If you would pardon me sir, I only did not expect anyone to be in this part of the building is all. To my dismay, I indulged in too much champagne before the curtains raised and found myself in desperate need of relief. I have had meetings on this level before and thought it easier to come here than travel down the stairs in this dress. It is rather bigger than I am used to..." Sansa was not sure why she was telling him all this but she could not stop her mouth from relaying her thoughts. She felt as though she were drunk and that the air was different than the air she usually breathed.

The Hound let out a slight breath that could have been mistaken as a chuckle. _Is he laughing at me? What did he say again? He changed his mind?_

"I apologise, sir, but what have you changed your mind about?" Sansa questioned.

It was the Hound's turn to study the patterns on the carpet as he spoke, "Can we meet tomorrow night for you to begin the painting?" He was almost sheepish as he said so.

 _The painting of course. Why else would he have followed me here. Had he followed me?_

"Yes of course. I have an opening in the evening tomorrow after dinner time. The sooner we begin, the better considering you probably have a horrid schedule and that the restaurant opens in less than a year. I am in apartment 503 in the Garfield building. My studio is attached to my living spaces. I prefer not having the hassles of traveling since I can sometimes work late into the night," She went on.

 _Why am I blabbering? He must think me some stupid girl going on as if this is my first commission._

Remembering herself, Sansa retrieved him a card as well. "It says Alan Stone but that is my pseudonym. The rest of the information is correct."

"Tomorrow then," was all he said with a small smirk. One Sansa was sure he meant to conceal.

And as suddenly as he had appeared, he had turned and glided away leaving Sansa wondering if it had really happened or if it were a vision.

'Tomorrow then.'

Closing her eyes and opening them after a few breaths, she willed her feet to do their duty and to remind herself that she was not in some clearing under stars but rather a mere hallway.

Pushing back the heavy curtain, Sansa returned to her seat next to Margaery. Though she was eager to take her seat, she found herself not paying attention to the stage despite her best efforts. She followed the performers as they drifted to their marks, but did not hear the music. Her mind was still stuck firmly to the floor in that hallway. Glancing over to where she saw The Hound seated before the had lights dimmed, she found he was not there. They had been seated in the first floor of balconies as well but were closer to the stage. He had not returned while the man named Bronn remained. Did he leave after he spoke with me?

Light unsympathetically brightened the auditorium and the older couples seated next to them filed out in search of a restroom and well practiced intermission conversation.

The two women stretched in their seats and turned to each other.

"So when you were peeing you-" Margaery started to say.

"You will never believe what-" Sansa had started.

Margaery raised an suggestive eyebrow to which Sansa spilled out with a little to hastily, "Well I used the bathroom in the office hall, you know the one I told you about last time we were here, and when I was coming out he was there. The Hound I mean. The Hound was in the hallway."

"Really?" Margaery had her head down played with the binoculars resting in her lap.

"He walked down the hallway to me and told me that he had changed his mind."

Margaery looked up. "About the painting?"

"Yes. He is coming to the studio tomorrow night now. First he yells at me and then he changes his mind. He did not even apologize."

Turning back in her seat to face the stage, Margaery let out a low chuckle and tilted her head up to the ceiling. "Of course. Sandor Clegane is as restless as I would have thought."

"Why do you say so? It only makes sense to begin now so there is enough time to finish it before the opening. I would say that is proactive not restless," Sansa stated a bit confused why her friend was laughing at the situation when an hour ago she was lemmenting the lost business.

"Sansa," Margaery said turning back to her with a sly smile on her face, "he had been taking looks at you the entire time we have been in our seats. The entire first act. I doubt he was even paying an ounce of attention to anything else that what was happening outside our balcony. And it was not to me or the oldies next to us he was looking at. The way he looked at you downstairs was as if he thought you belong in a museum. As soon as you got up so did he."

Before Sansa could think on what Margaery had said, Sam and his new wife Joan stepping into their balcony space to inquire if Margaery had chosen a caterer for her Christmas Ball.


	2. Chapter 2: The Orient Express

**In case you want to listen to the radio programs that will be in this chapter. I found them quite enjoyable!**

ESCAPE "THE ORIENT EXPRESS"

watch?v=qgpDUXAjgho

MARIO LANZA & KATHRYN GRAYSON RADIO PROGRAM 1949

watch?v=jRZk32N9ZUc

 _Chapter 2. The Orient Express_

 _The Moon lingered overhead illuminating the ground below so that the night had not felt as dark as it had before. She was watching her, that Moon. Always following. Her surroundings held a soft glow that seemed to round edges and cast gray shadows. Shadows that grew into shapes they should not have been like castles and flying things. Shadows that danced._

 _The table stood firm near the door. A light was pouring from underneath the door frame but she turned from it. The candles that flickered happily there on the table tried to invite her to sit down. The cement wall of the house was cold. They were all somehow familiar to her. Like she had been here before. Like she would be there soon. Long plant arms nestled nearby and dangled welcomingly. She ducked under some of these arms as she made the choice to leave this place. They tickled her skin as a tender goodbye._

 _Soft grass reached up between her toes. Her feet were bare and she found that the rest of her flesh was as well with only the swish of her hair against her back for company. Fairy lights were congregating just beyond the cover of overgrowth adjacent from her. They were playing small instruments that tinkled and vibrated. She lingered to watch them for a moment. How they danced around one another in swirls and circles. Creating patterns in the air. Laughing as they played._

 _But she felt compelled to press on. Pulled to continue moving away from here._

 _Ahead, she heard water trickling into itself. There was an overhang of vines and leaves. As she pushed these aside she saw the Moon reflected in the deep waters as though She too had come to dip her toes and steal away from the night. Hide away from something unpleasant. To be born anew if only for this one night. To forget that._

 _Sansa stepped forward emerging herself in its translucent embrace. The water felt warm under her feet as she glided down the steps embedded within the natural pool. Walking deeper into the pool, the water kissed her stomach and her hair floated at her sides._

 _As she moved down she became frightened._

' _Tomorrow then' said a deep voice so close she felt the breath on her ear._

Sansa started awake with her breath caught in her throat. She came to see that she was in her bedroom. Releasing her breath, she rolled away from her windows towards the wall that held her bedside table where a powder-blue clock rested. It was late morning said the clock, though she could have guessed as much with the quantity of light invading her room despite the window's silky curtains. Sansa groaned and covered her eyes with a forearm. Her head thrummed a bit as she remembered how she had returned to her apartment the night before. She had been paraded home in a cab that was transporting Margaery back to her place on its final stop. There had been bawdy laughter. There had been impressions of people they had become acquainted with that night. Margaery had stolen a gentleman's hat and was wearing it obscenely as she smoked a cigarette. A drop of her keys in their bowl, a bump of her hip against the kitchen table, which she could now rudely feel the aftereffects of, and a careful slide out of her dress. Bed. Glorious bed to stop her head from spinning. A bed to giggle into one last time before the magical evening slipped away to live on if only in memory. Sansa realized that she was still in her delicates from the evening before. She had not even bothered to change into nightclothes.

After the opera had ended, Margaery had insisted that they continue their night with drinks at the hotel across the street. It posed to be _the_ prime location where most of the top socialites would be gathered. They must go. It was essentially the VIPs of the already limited VIPs. ' _We just have be there or we will miss out on all the fun!'_ Margaery had insisted. So they went and drank, and laughed, and danced until late into the night. Until the sun was threatening to rise declaring a new day had begun despite many wishing the opposite. No one else had asked to buy her paintings, but plenty of men asked to buy Sansa drinks.

With a sigh that would have been more fitting from her sister Arya, Sansa pushed away the warmth of the covers and placed her feet into the slippers that stood their station on the floor. She was relieved to see that the gown from last night was mindfully draped across her reading chair rather than a pool of petals on the floor. Margaery would have been so displeased with her if Sansa had mistreated the gown.

 _Slippers, robe, tea, paper._ It was a morning regimen that could be considered religion.

Donning a robe and padding to the kitchen, she let out a most unladylike yawn and started the burner for her tea kettle. Her kitchen was a modest size but Sansa made sure to have all the essentials to cook a decent meal. In the cabinet above her refrigerator, she still had a couple spoonfuls left of a breakfast tea her mother had sent from Paris last month. Sansa opted for this instead of the green tea she sometimes drank. Tea was a bonding point for the Stark women that even wild Arya partook in. Every morning during the war, they would rise and take tea before the push and pull of whatever was to become of the day. Even if none of them spoke much on a morning, it was a quiet solely for them to enjoy together. As a unit. To remember that they still had each other. To remember that small moments still existed.

 _I should send the playbill from last night to mother. She would absolutely love that and maybe come down to see it with me sometime._

She consulted her stomach and decided against toast for the time being. Perhaps after she washed, her stomach would find the idea more agreeable. Pouring a cup once the kettle sung its welcomed siren scream, Sansa pulled open her balcony door and leaned forward against the railing. The mid morning sun was warm on her skin although it was already mid September. She never minded the cold but was rather used to it from her childhood growing up in Portland. Margaery was always scolding her that she would get sick from doing this in the winter, but Sansa never did.

Traffic flowed by beneath her and life carried on not meaning to wait for anyone. Not that anyone cared if it waited or not. On this side of the building, the streets were more narrow- only allowing one way traffic. A mother was pushing her child in a stroller across the street past the bookshop settled there. On one of the balconies to her left, she watched Mr. Bianchi as he watered his plants and gave him a small wave when he looked up. In the apartment across the street, Sansa caught a flash of black hair.

 _A little late for her. Maybe she had a long night as well…_

She was a petite woman with olive skin and raven hair that fell to her shoulders. Her apartment was a little below eye level from Sansa's but that did not distort her view. Every morning, this woman opened her curtains admitting the sunlight so that she could perform sun salutations. Naked. It really was quite a performance. It was rhythmic the way her arms followed a perfect path from floor to sky, side to side, and sky to floor. How her hair fell across her face and slid off. The bend and fold and stretch of her body. How there were moments when the practice stilled and breathed. The delicacy of the movements and the obvious power and purpose to them were mesmerizing.

When their schedules overlapped, Sansa would watch as she sipped on her cooling tea. At first, the woman acknowledged her audience with a smile that mortified Sansa so much so that she would stay inside for days. Despite her embarrassment though, Sansa would find herself on the balcony again. Waiting. Watching. Eventually, Sansa challenged herself to return the smile and remain on the balcony. Some days, if she was feeling particularly bold, Sansa would give her a thumbs up that always made this woman's body shake with laughter. It slipped into Sansa's morning ritual, this secret game between the two of them.

Having made quick work of her tea after the woman had finished her salutations, Sansa passed across her quaint living area to her front door. Checking the other apartments along the hall, she confirmed that most of her neighbors had already long started their Fridays. Most people though, did not have the freedom of time such that Sansa's occupation allowed her. It was one of her favorite perks but it forced Sansa to mold her own soft sort of structure. She picked up the paper and closed the door relocking it.

One of the first items on Sansa's checklist when she moved into this New York apartment had been to buy a subscription to the paper. The paper was always consistent. It would wait for her each morning and would never tire of telling her stories and sharing it's pictures. Front page news was dedicated to something about a jewelry store robbery downtown. Again. She fingered through the pages until she reached the gossip section. It was a delightful, maybe cliche guilty pleasure of hers, but it always gave her and Margaery something to review over meals. It especially provided them ample material to discuss if Margaery made an appearance on those pages or if the woman herself had sent in a tip about another. The woman sure had a way of conveniently positioning herself a few steps ahead of the press and more frequently than not, it was enjoyable.

With the pages opened wide, there he was captured on the top right. The Hound. They had stolen a photo of him last night as well as a few of the other celebrities as they arrived at the Opera. He donned that scowl on his face again. That scowl that made him look horrid. One she had seen in the papers many times before. The man Bronn was beside him and looked like he was yelling something back to the paps. Sansa had the displeasure of opening a car door only to be overwhelmed with strobing camera flashes a few times before. It was not a sensation she felt like she could ever grow comfortable with.

 _He looks different than the man I met last night._

Then she remembered how angry he became when Margaery suggested that Sansa paint him.

 _Maybe not so different._ He probably was as angry as he looked and the few instances of quiet kindness were blips. She placed the paper on a table to review more in depth later.

Sansa retreated through her bedroom and into the attached bathroom all the while disrobing. The space was a simple white tile and cream walls. Rather small, it did not have room for a vanity, but did house a tub more than large enough to fit all of her. She started the shower, since there was no time for a bath with the extra sleep she had abused, and checked her appearance in the mirror. Her face was a little puffy and her belly a little bloated from the drinks. Hair was a wild tangle from what must have been a tossing type of sleep. She usually braided it before bed but she was just grateful to have had the mind to remove her makeup, though that detail was a little fuzzy. Some battles were won while other were lost she supposed.

Wrapped in her pale, blue negligee with wet hair dripping down her back, Sansa made good on that toast and the rest of the gossip section before examining the lesser bits of the newspaper. At her desk she saw that she had sloppily scribbled "The Hound" in her appointment book at some point last night. Staring at the scribble, she thought about how this was going to be a different challenge that evening, painting him. He was so starkly different from her usual subjects of old men, blossoming young girls, and the occasional dog. The old men were easy enough to humor. Most just yammered on about how "important" they were with a display of who they knew, their vast accomplishments, or stories about the "good old days." The young ladies opposingly, tended to be wildly entertaining if Sansa could charm them enough to open up about their crushes and dreams. She usually did. Time with them passed the quickest and most agreeably.

 _Maybe he will be restless like the young children are._ And Sansa imagined this hulk of a man swinging his feet and huffing out exasperated complaints about being hungry and wanting to be outside instead. It made her smile to herself until she remembered how her pulse had raced when she saw him in that hallway. How he had stood so close to her. A little too close.

 _Maybe he will get angry with me again. Maybe he will not want to be here. He probably will not come at all._ She shook her head to scatter those thoughts.

According to the weather report from the paper and her balcony, the afternoon was going to remain mild like it was in the morning. Sansa laid out a tea length gray skirt and a light blue blouse with the bow at the collar. Taking a seat in front of her white vanity in the bedroom, she considered herself for a moment. The day consisted of mainly errands but she did have a meeting scheduled for the afternoon with a woman who wanted a portrait of her goddaughter painted. Sansa decided on a simple winged eye, a coat of a light brown eyeshadow, and a neutral lip that she would bring in her purse to apply later. Once clothed, she worked her mostly dry hair into a loose braid that reached the middle of her back and put on a pair of heels that she knew she could walk a distance in without fear of blisters.

Grabbing leftover soup from the fridge, Sansa retrieved her gray wool cap from the closet and her keys from their bowl. Her neighbor, Mrs. Lewis, was out of the country traveling for the past week, and would be until the end of the month. Sansa, the ideal neighbor, had agreed to feed the cat once when Mrs. Lewis had to leave unexpectedly. She steadily held the job of cat watcher since.

The cat's name was Green Bean and he was the fluffiest, gray ragdoll cat Sansa had ever seen. Mr. Bean, which is what she herself dubbed him, was currently sprawled out shamelessly on his back in the middle of the extravagant living room. Expensive lamps and the excess of furniture were almost overbearing. Mrs. Lewis had been widowed at a young age, but her sons had their feet firmly placed in the plastics industry. They ensured that their mother was more than taken care of. This was the apartment she raised her children in and she would not part with it.

Knowing the routine, Mr. Bean sprang to life once Sansa dropped her things on the kitchen table and opened the balcony door. This was not something Mrs. Lewis asked her to do but Sansa knew Mr. Bean, and what he enjoyed most in his life was that balcony. Once, when Sansa was reading Dickenson on her own, she met Mr. Bean on his respective cushion across the way. He had been crying and begging her for some of her turkey sandwich. Never one to turn away a new friend, Sansa had obligingly tossed a few pieces over to him. They had been chummy ever since.

Placing a new bowl of wet food outside for her voluptuous friend, Sansa sat cross legged next to him while she ate her own lunch. She told Mr. Bean about the gossip section and how The Hound was coming that night for her to paint him as he groomed himself having already wolfed down his food. Once they were both finished, she checked that his litter did not need changing, which it thankfully did not today, and said her goodbyes. Since they were on the fifth floor, Sansa did not fear that Mr. Bean would try to escape from his balcony. Really, she doubted that he would ever try. He was the laziest creature Sansa had ever met. No interest in birds or bugs. The cat was satisfied with watching the traffic pass by and with snoozing in the sun, for which looked promising today. Sansa would not rob him of this, but would come back before night arrived to make sure he was inside and to close the doors.

Stepping out into the entrance way of her building, Sansa was greeted by Tom the doorman and the blare of a car horn.

"Good afternoon, Sansa," doorman Tom said with a sweet smile.

Doorman Tom was a bit older than her father's age and not nearly as tall. He was smaller than Sansa actually, but shortness was not something that emotionally plagued Tom like it did other men who tried to overcompensate. With a trimmed mustache and rosey cheeks, Sansa rarely saw Tom in a foul mood. She had taken to him the first day she had moved in.

"Hello, Tom" Sansa greeted him while moving out of the way of a mother and small child entering the building.

"Off to the Library again?" Tom asked her.

"Unfortunately not today. I have a meeting to attend and some errands to run."

"Well Miss Sansa, you could not ask for a more beautiful day for it. Though I do not think this warm weather is going to last. It's going to be a wicked winter and it will come on fast I say." Tom was looking up at the slow rolling clouds as if it were all written there waiting for him to read. Maybe it was.

For the past year and a half that Sansa had lived here, Tom had been predicting the weather patterns with an odd accuracy. When she would need an umbrella, when the forecasted snow would merely be rain instead, when the morning clouds would part ways to a perfect sunny afternoon. He insisted it was because he came from a long line of farmers and because of a childhood with more hours spent outdoors than in. Sansa had insisted that he make predictions for the newspaper because those were usually only half right.

Sansa has once asked him how he came to live in New York and was not a farmer himself. Tom's answer changed with each tennant he revealed his story to. The tale began that he had loved a girl who worked in a nearby town where he would to sell his father's cows' milk. How her hair was the color of honey and her laugh even sweeter. It was a thrilling courtship with secret messages and town hall dances. Stolen kisses and long walks. That they had fallen in love and planned to marry despite her father's desire to give her to someone else with more money. That they had eloped and ran away to New York to find work. To leave everything behind and start anew together. And then the tale would here deviate. He would say that she and the babe had died in childbirth. That she had left him for another man. That she went off to be a dancer. That her father had found her and took her away from him. That her father found them and killed her. How he had lost his first love is what changed within the story each time he had told it- never how much he loved her. Sansa could read in his eyes that that bit was at least true, and came to accept that some truths were just too painful to face. Tom had found another woman who he married years later. Her name was Elisa and they had three girls together.

"I hope you are wrong, Tom." Sansa laughed as she turned to leave. She took two steps before she remembered. "Oh Tom! I have a um, I have someone coming for a session tonight. If he asks, can you tell him my room number? You recall how they always forget to bring the card and then they cannot remember where I am." Sometimes Sansa wondered if it would be easier to just rent a studio space instead.

Tom gave her a knowing wink and a nod as she left.

Days like this were truly a treasure in New York. A subtle breeze loosened baby hairs that tickled Sansa's cheeks as she hummed a tune to accompany the tapping of her shoes. The buildings shrunk into single townhomes as Sansa's feet traveled to their destination.

The woman Sansa was going to meet, Melvian Garth, had heard about her from Mrs. Adams who was a previous client. Mrs. Adams was the wife of a William J. Adams, the lawyer for The Metropolitan Opera House. Halfway through the commission, Margaery had confided in her that she heard from Agnes, a chorus girl, that Mr. Adams was having an affair with a new girl in the company, but not to tell anyone. Maybe Margaery everyone's secrets because she had a face that inspired mischief in even the most somber of people.

Well this secret- that was only really kept secret from _Mrs._ Adams- made the remaining painting sessions complete agony for Sansa. It was a few months after the portrait was complete when Sansa heard that Mrs. Adams was no longer being called so, and that the divorce process was brutally messy.

Once she arrived at the address for Melvian Garth, Sansa took a steadying breath and rang the bell. A footman opened it for her and showed her inside after introductions. Sansa was presented to the woman of the house in a side room that was off the living space. Numerous landscapes and still lifes adorned the eggshell painted walls. The furniture looked more stiff than comfortable and the hardwood floors were newly waxed. Upon seeing Sansa and the footman, the two ladies who occupied the room stood.

"Mrs. Garth, I present you Miss Sansa Stark," introduced the footman.

"Thank you, Andrew. You may leave us," said Melvian Garth without a trace of emotion in her voice. She was tall for a woman though not in height with Sansa. Her composure had a particular pinched look as if she made the face after eating a sour lemon tart and that the face had decided to stick around. Her garb was a modest but well made cranberry colored dress paired with a cream sweater and pearls.

Shaking her hand, Sansa told her it was pleasant to finally meet her and was promptly introduced to the goddaughter, Gemma Barnes.

Gemma was a small thing and could be no more than fourteen. Doll like, her hair was straw blonde and brushed to a soft wave. Her features were small and she must have been tiny for her age as well.

"Miss Stark please sit. Now I have talked a long while with William Adams about the portrait you painted for his- excuse me. For the former Mrs. Adams. I even spoke with Debra herself and they both had nothing but compliments to shower your name with. Believe me, I was skeptical at first, but then I saw the painting," Mrs. Garth said with sharp eyes that were trying to look right through her.

Sansa internally groaned. She had experience with women like Mrs. Garth. Women who saw Sansa's profession as a hobby that she should only pick back up again once the children were grown. That she should not be working but married and pregnant. Most of them never voice so, but the way Mrs. Garth was looking at her, Sansa knew.

"That is most kind of them to say so. Debra was a delight to sit with." To be honest the woman never really spoke much during their sessions.

"She is quite agreeable. Now I am going to trust you, Miss Stark to do exactly as you did for Ms. Debra Harris and paint my Gemma. She will be wearing this dress- Gemma stand up and turn around for Miss Stark. There you are." Her long, birdlike hands waved in the air.

Gemma was spinning in a mint green gown with lace trim around the neckline, waist, and cuffs. The outfit almost looked like a ballet costume coming to end right below the knee. When Gemma had sat back down Mrs. Garth continued, "The portrait will be of similar dimension to Ms. Harris' and will be full body as well. I do want Gemma to be placed at the piano bench behind us and to have a portion of the instrument included in the frame."

"Mrs. Garth how do you suppose to have the piano transported to my-"

"No," the woman interjected. "You will be painting Gemma here in this house. Her schedule with her studies and practices are too time consuming and too important to have her waste it commuting to you."

Sansa was not anticipating this. She had not been required to paint outside her established studio space in a long time. The thought of lugging her equipment here was loathsome.

"Yes, pardon me. That is not a problem." Sansa said instead of voicing her complaints.

The duration of the meeting passed without hiccup and soon enough Sansa was walking out the door with another commission.

Taking an alternative route home, Sansa made her way to the market. She had a list in her pocket of a few things she needed to pick up. A fresh loaf of bread, some spices, and small bottle of wine. Having made quick work of these purchases, Sansa wandered aimlessly through the flower booths. She could never resist their vibrant charms and smiling faces as they lured her in. They just begged to be painted. Begged to be given the adoration they deserved. A woman named Julia always put together the most beautiful arrangements for her because she knew Sansa appreciated the art and skill it took to get it right. How some flowers complimented each other and how others were sometimes better showcased on their own. Today, Sansa settled to a bouquet of pink roses that were too perfect to say goodbye to.

Bag over her shoulder and flowers in hand, Sansa's last stop was at a deli she frequented. It was owned by a vivacious Italian family headed by a woman who was named Maria but insisted everyone called her M. She was always scolding Sansa that she was too thin and that she needed to marry one of her sons. Sansa always declined the marriage offer but M always gave her an extra roll with her order anyways.

The bell chimed as Sansa stepped in to the smell of fresh bread and various meets wafting through the air. One of the grandchildren was behind the counter slicing a large piece of ham. Was it Tommy or Paul? She could never tell the twins apart.

"Sansa, dear!" bellowed Maria as she appeared from the back room and met Sansa at the register. "How was the opera last night? Oh the pictures in the paper looked electric!" M settled herself on her stool and crossed her arms across her breasts. She was a woman in her mid sixties and full of figure. The woman never lost her beauty and seemed to only develop more spunk as time wore on. Handsome and loud were the words Sansa would use to describe her.

With stars in her eyes, Sansa could not contain her glee while filling her in. "M, it was _to die for_. One would never dream of such dresses."

M looked to her grandchild and ordered, "Make Sansa's usual, Paul honey." Back to Sansa and in the same tone M pushed, "The men Sansa, tell me about the men. I bet they all flocked to you. Oh, I bet they were all so devilishly handsome."

"Dashing of course." This delighted the woman.

"And the opera? How did you enjoy it? I have read mixed reviews."

"I quite enjoyed it." Sansa only partly fibbed. She had a hard time keeping up with the pace of the performance even with Margaery filling her in with what she missed during her bathroom trip. It was unlike her.

M was too lost in her own reminiscing of fabulous men and her time as a singer in a speakeasy to notice that Sansa had far less to say about this show than she usually did. Paul interrupted his grandmother's musings with a thwack of the paper bag against the counter. M checked the bag, made a tutting noise, and added in the famous extra roll.

"You know my son Marco is coming home from Italy next week?" M called as Sansa was leaving through the open door.

"Thanks for the extra roll, M!" was Sansa's equally famous response.

Back at the entrance of her building, Tom was still there but his attention was lent to a young man Sansa saw moving in last week. The man was slender but had a few inches on her in height. Sharply dressed. Sansa reflected, not for the first time, that many women probably found him handsome if only in a conventional way. It appeared as if Tom was giving directions to him due to his animated arm gesturing. Sansa passed by unnoticed.

She was not sure what had compelled her, but Sansa decided to take the stairs up to her floor and decidedly regretted it once she reached the halfway point between floor two and floor three.

 _This is what I get for sitting around painting and reading so much. I should have taken advantage of the warmer weather and spent walking it in the parks._

Despite her lecture minutes before about being too stationary, once Sansa was back in the comforts of her apartment she happily sat at her table with her sandwich and one of the two books that she was currently consuming. This was a copy of King Lear she had borrowed from the library. For nighttime, Sansa saved a book that her friend Randa gifted her. Though she was not quite so drawn to traditional romances like she was during girlhood, Sansa hungrily enjoyed these novels. She would find herself in a blacket's embrace reading to her bedside lamp late into the night about sinful pirates and fair women of the courts, a lion tamer and a trapeze artist, or gallant knights and princesses. To be bold, these books were racy and delicious.

Sansa finished the chapter she was on, which long outlasted her sandwich, and peeked at the time. It was almost a quarter past six read the clock.

 _I should have given him a proper time instead of 'in the evening after dinner.'_ But Sansa's usual professional and schedule driven self when it came to her work had been swept off when he came to her so suddenly. She was determined to do better tonight.

She went to her door and unlocked it in case he came earlier than expected. Escaping into her bedroom, Sansa exchanged her skirt and elegant blouse for a pair of loose fitting, camel trousers and a white long sleeved shirt. Sometimes Sansa felt rather masculine in her painting outfits but there was also a comfort in them. She embraced the ease the pants gave her to sit on her stool and never cared how messy they became.

Grabbing her new roses and walking past her living space, Sansa opened the door to her studio space, turned on the lights, and was welcomed. She had bought this apartment precisely because of this room. What once had been an expansive extra storage area for the building's owner, was now all Sansa's. She had struck a special deal to have it. Instead of carpets, a few long white tarps caressed the wooden floor that never complained about friendly tea spills or accidental and non accidental paint splatters. Large widows were placed on the back and right walls, while there to the left, was a door leading to the outside hallway. The wall shared with her living room was covered with a board that allowed Sansa to pin pieces to it. Easels littered the space. Canvases of mixed sizes were clumped in the corner like a crude pyramid of playing cards. There was an empty vase sitting on one of her display tables. It was a fitting home for her new pink friends.

Sansa laid out a few canvas options for The Hound just in case. One was a modest size, but more fitting for a portrait to be hung in a manor hallway, not a restaurant. The next was sizably larger and would warrant a painting a bit bigger than lifesize. Two others were exceptionally huge but truth be told, more popular amongst Sansa's wealthier customers- especially the men. Next she went about setting up the light stands she used for her portraits that asked for longer hours of her time. Her window provided more than enough sunlight for sketching and quick pieces, but she had learned her lesson otherwise. If it was a painting that would be completed within a couple of back to back sessions and was scheduled for a consistent afternoon time slot, Sansa could usually forgo the artificial light. Seeing as she had no grasp of what The Hound's timeline looked like, she played it safe and set up the lights. They had not even discussed what he wanted or more likely, did not want.

 _He probably has an irregular day to day like I do with his trainings and appearances and who knows what else._

She questioned the clock that hung on the wall and it told her it was six-thirty. With nothing left to prepare for The Hound, Sansa smiled at her roses patiently lounging in their vase. Grabbing a discarded sketchbook, she dragged her stool over to the blushing ladies so that she could properly worship them. During the war, when her siblings were not yet awake in the morning, Sansa would sneak out of bed to the garden with a pad and a pencil if the weather permitted. It was an escape that she selfishly took to be alone for just a small time. Flowers never fought with one another. Flowers never tossed juice on her when they were throwing a tantrum. At least during the week, the family's tutors would have them in lessons all day, but on the weekends when her mother had to be away, Sansa was in charge of all three of her younger siblings.

The clock declared five after seven now, but had kept it secret being sure Sansa would not have listened anyways. She was wrapped in a pink shroud of petals. Lost in velvet waves and valleys. Back in her family garden in stolen moments of peace- so much so that Sansa almost did not hear the rap on her door. Popping up, she abandoned the roses and wiped her palms against her pants.

With a deep breath, Sansa opened the door to him. There was the Hound, just as towering as he was the night before and just as stoney faced.

"Hello, Mr. Clegane. Please, come in," Sansa said stepping aside for him.

The Hound loomed in her doorway wearing simple black slacks with gray suspenders and a cream button down shirt. Slung across his shoulder was a leather messenger bag and a black overcoat hung over his arm. As he stepped into her apartment, Sansa watched him scan her living room to the attached kitchen and now wished she had spent her extra time tidying up. Considering what her place looked like to an outside eye, Sansa inwardly chided herself. There were stray tea cups littering her windowsill, coffee table, desk, and there were even some on the floor. _When did I collect so many of those?_ Blankets were unfolded. A few old newspapers had not made their way to the bin yet. Some unwashed dishes were in the sink from the day before. A few pairs of high heels were discarded in the living room from when she had modeled her options with last night's gown.

 _Oh my goodness I look like a slob. How did I not notice all of this before?_ She regrettably had been too busy preparing herself for the Opera last night to care what became of her apartment during the day and she had been too hungover in the morning to have the mind to consider having someone witness this.

The Hound's shoe made a squeaking noise on the floor jarring Sansa from one dread to another. That squeak meant one thing. Rain.

"Oh no the balcony," Sansa gasped with her eyes going wide. "Mr. Bean!"

"Excuse me?" The Hound looked down at her as if she were mad.

"Um- you can leave your shoes right here by the door," she said motioning to said spot as she ran back into her bedroom for slippers. "And hang your jacket there. I will be" flopping the slippers down on the ground and sliding her feet in, "right back."

Grabbing Mrs. Lewis' keys and fast walking without looking entirely crazy (she hoped), Sansa dashed to the neighboring apartment. Once inside, Mr. Bean greeted her by chirping his insistent give-me-food-absolutely-right-now-how-dare-you-make-me-wait-meows. He was right in between her feet weaving about as Sansa slid to the balcony doors. To her relief, it must not have been a windy evening because no water had come inside as an uninvited guest. She pulled the doors shut and almost stumbled over Mr. Bean as he was always underfoot when he was hungry. Entitled like a prince. Sansa frowned at her friend.

"Mr. Bean I am so, so sorry that I forgot about you. I have no idea where my head is right now. I promise I will be back later tonight for your dinner. _He_ is here!" Sansa bent down to kiss his head but he squirmed in her hands and mewled at her.

"No food right now. I do not want to smell like your food, Beanie and he probably already thinks I am loony. I will be back later I promise." With her foot blocking Mr. Bean, Sansa shut the door on the cat's outraged face.

Returning to her own, Sansa was cursing herself for what an embarrassing beginning the night had taken. Outbursting about the rain. Saying ' _Mr. Bean'_ in front of another human. She was mortified. At her doorway, Sansa came in to see The Hound in the middle of her living room with one of her books open within his hands. The novel looked tiny held there and she noted how oddly out of place his hulking stature seemed amongst her pillows and blankets and places to perch. Their contrasting softness to his edges. Like a bull in a dollhouse.

She could have sworn he jumped a little when she breathed, "I am so sorry. Really. That was extremely unprofessional and rude of me, sir. To explain, I am caring for my neighbor's cat while she is gone- she lives just next door- and I had left her balcony doors open since this morning. I had no knowledge that it had been raining and I was terrified water had gotten in." _Sansa Stark you are running through words again._

The Hound just raised his eyebrows at her as he placed the book back on its resting place on the coffee table.

"My studio is back through here if you would follow me please," she said hoping to pass over this blip and continue the night as smoothly as possible.

She watched him as he entered. It always felt like an intimate thing, sharing this space with outsiders, because her studio was an extension of her. It was a place where her energies could be confronted and molded into artwork both big and small. A doodle or a wall length painting, they were her and they were displayed for people's criticism or adoration equally. His eyes traveled from easel to easel, from makeshift podiums to podiums she had grown to afford, and from flowers to obscure objects she had found interesting along the way. The room screamed "Sansa" weather she wanted it to or not. Sansa had evolved beyond the phase in her life where she would have felt self conscious about her paintings and sketches. She knew they were good. Some were even great. Sansa knew that some people would appreciate her works, while others did not care for them or even just simply, art. She was okay with that. It was something she had come to terms with while she developed as an artist.

The Hound though, was still unreadable. Unlike a few of her clients or friends who had come here, he had not feigned interest or put on an overly sweet performance of admiration. He was silent. It made Sansa even more nervous.

"I laid out some canvases for you to choose from since it was not previously discussed." She watched him as he weighed the options with a frown and his hands in his pockets.

 _He could at least pretend that he wants to be here._ Sansa could not help feeling like she had already ruined the job. That he would probably change his mind just as fast as the night before and leave.

"What do you think?" The Hound asked actually sounding unsure of himself. "We have the wall space for anything."

"Me?" Sansa almost squeaked.

 _No one ever asked me before._ With her clients it was always ' _I want this'_ or ' _I know so-and-so did this therefore I want exactly the same thing'_ like Mrs. Garth. It did not matter if Sansa thought that a particular canvas was too large to hang above their fireplace, or that a family portrait would be much more impressive and distinguished if it were bigger than the size of an unfolded newspaper. When it came to making a decision like that, most people did not care for her opinion if only because they feared it would expose their lack of knowledge on the matter.

The earlier image of The Hound swinging his feet like a child flashed in her mind again. It made her smile. "If it were me sitting for my portrait, I would pick the smallest canvas because typically, that takes the artist less time to paint. Less surface area to cover means less time sitting in that chair, though mine is more comfortable than most."

The Hound grinned and questioned, "So you have had your person painted before?"

Unwillingly blushing like mad, Sansa's mind traveled back to the first few months when she had started her life in the city. When she could barely make her rent, Sansa was too proud to go to her family who had been skeptical of her moving and pursuing this life from the start. They could easily have given her the money but her ego would not allow it. They had refused to understand why she wanted to toss _everything_ aside and move away from it all. Her old life. To make some extra money, Sansa had stood in as a live model for some classes. In some of those classes she had been as naked as her name day. Sansa was not ashamed of the work. How could she be when she was an artist herself and appreciated the value? No, Sansa had always admired those who stood on that pedestal without fear. Like they themselves were Greek Gods and Goddesses worthy to be rendered and immortalized. In her first nude session she had initially been painfully nervous, but half way through the nervousness had dissolved and had been lifted into empowerment. It was thrilling.

Sansa ran her finger tips against the nearest canvas and smiled to herself. "I have many times, actually. I must say that standing is unpleasant, but standing in an obscure pose can be downright dreadful. When I first arrived in New York, I modeled for a handful of classes at a university and for a few more established artists. In truth Mr. Clegane, I much prefer being the one doing to painting," and when she finished saw a new grin spread across his face. A grin that screamed that he knew _exactly_ what that detail was that she had left unsaid.

The grin vanished with him as he turned from her to pace among her in progress works. She had a few portraits in progress taking up residence here until they matured and it was time for them to move on to their new homes. "You wouldn't happen to have modeled for the side of a bomber, Miss Stark?" He peered at her for a moment from behind a rather large inprogress of a banker before he vanished again. Like a tiger stalking within high grass. "No, I think I would have remembered that plane if you had," he added just above a murmur. "What stopped you from continuing to model?"

"I sold my first big painting and started making money." Sansa retorted as she picked up a canvas that was not obscenely large, but one that would command a wall nonetheless. "This one should do."

He looked her over and then the canvas she was holding and said, "Alright then."

Sansa busied herself with setting up the canvas on an easel that had a vacancy while he walked to the armchair placed under her lights. Had she really been more focused on the task at hand, she would not have been so quick to see out of the corner of her eye that The Hound had removed his messenger bag from his shoulder and set it on the chair. But she was not focused on what she was supposed to be focussing on. Not at all. She was quick to catch his movements as one suspender strap was pulled down from a heavy shoulder. And then the next. When he started unbuttoning his shirt she was openly staring at him without pretending to have her attentions elsewhere. His hands deftly worked down. Her mouth was slightly agape by the time he removed the button down and went about pulling up and off his undershirt.

Right then and there, Sansa Stark decided that newspaper photography never did an ounce of justice. It was fraudulent. A scam. Up close, she could see the details of the tattoos that adorned his pectoral and left arm. Up close, he reminded her of the _actual_ statues of gods. Not just people who modeled in art classes but the masterpieces that she practiced mindless figure studies on at museums. But here, in her tiny apartment, he loomed bigger than the gods. He seemed to take up the entire room. More powerful here in her studio than they could ever be up in the sky or wherever they decided to go.

He raised his brows again when he saw her openingly leering at him and rolled his eyes, but that was merely out of self satisfaction. He had to know that he was impressive. This body had not won him and kept him his belt for nothing.

 _Oh gods is he planning to do this nude as a joke? I swear I will not survive it._

Turning to his bag, he placed his folded garments aside and shook out a black material from inside. To her relief, it was his black boxing robe that sported a simple yellow striping detail.

"Do you take me for a pin up girl too?" he asked chuckling as her face reddening even more. "No, I lost a bet to my friend Bronn. You remember him. The asshole with the big mouth from last night? I lost so he wants me in this."

"Is that why you changed your mind- why you are here tonight, Mr. Clegane? Because you lost a bet?" Sansa asked trying to mask her voice from the disappointment that was wilting inside her. _Of course it is,_ she thought. She had not even meant to ask him the question but it slipped out before she could stop it. It was too forward. Her eyes spiraled down and followed the path a bit of green paint had dribbled onto the foot of the easel.

After a pause the Hound said, "No, that's not why I'm here."

A singular "oh" was all Sansa could produce in response. Suddenly, she felt guilty as if she had accused him of something unwarranted. Gods, she was all off kilter tonight.

After a moment dedicated to genuinely setting up her space, Sansa asked, "Is that a spare robe? If so, you can leave it with me and I will iron it. That way it is here and you do not have to worry about it getting wrinkled each time."

The Hound looked down at himself as though he was not aware that his robe had been wrinkled. He affirmed that it was a spare and that if she thought that was best, he would leave it in her care.

As Sansa studied him, she considered what would be the correct way to go about this. She was blocking off the placement of The Hound on the canvas. How much of him should be shown? Since she had chosen one of the larger canvases it would have been silly for a traditional shoulder up composition. That would create a portrait overbearingly larger than life and The Hound did not appear to be so pretentious. It only made sense therefore, to widen the view to end right at the top of his knees. The whole while she debated this, he continued his quiet observation of the room and its contents. Decided, Sansa stood up and approached him and only then, did The Hound shift his gaze to her. Pulling up another nearby stool, she placed it mirroring his own chair.

"With a canvas this size, I would recommend a composition from waist up." She stated and continued when he nodded his head. "Bring your knees a little more together like this," Sansa said as she bid him to mimic her. "Place your hands like this but make sure it is natural and comfortable for you. I am going to block this out on the canvas tonight so we know how to position you next time to ensure everything stays consistent." She watched as he looked down at his hands puzzling out what looked good but still normal. This was always entertaining for Sansa. She found that people usually struggled to consciously mock actions that are so mindless in everyday life.

Once he was settled, Sansa stood up and threw caution to the wind.

"Do you mind if I make a few adjustments?" She asked standing abruptly in front of him. When he shook his head, Sansa touched and moved his robe so that both ends laid even across his chest and gently pulled where the fabric was too loose or too tight. She could feel the weight of The Hounds eyes burning into her as she administered her alterations and she tried to ignore the warmth that radiated from him as well as the warmth on her face.

Once satisfied, she turned her attention to his face and hair. Such a sad shade of gray his eyes were. They enticed thoughts of how water and ink mixed when she cleaned bamboo brushes. How the ink would swirl around inside the water all the while dancing intertwined in a contained nothingness. She thought she could almost ignore or maybe move past the scars in time. Maybe find the beauty in the sculpted valleys and ridges and twists and turns of them. She began to run her fingers through his black hair pushing it back from his face.

"You wear your hair back when you fight but for this, I think your hair is something that is unique and should not be hidden. Same as your scars," Sansa said in almost a whisper. "They should not hide behind your hair."

Speaking this, she was sure she had stepped beyond some invisible boundary he had built because his body had drastically stiffened.

"Don't speak as if they are not hideous, girl. We both know what I look like so don't pity me and lie so _prettily_ ," The Hound basically growled.

"I mean it," Sansa tried to assure him and intended to stand her ground. "Scars are no different from birthmarks or moles. They are just a part of you and do not make you anything less."

She had immediately regretted her attempt because The Hound had grabbed her wrist almost painfully stopping her from her attentions.

"I had not taken you to be daft, Miss Stark, but maybe I was mistaken. I was not born with these like some cute chorus girl with a mole on her cheek. These were _given_ to me. But you, an ignorant girl probably pampered her whole prissy life, compare them to a _birthmark_." He scowled and released her wrist from his vice.

Eyes downcast, Sansa stammered an apology and returned to her stool. She had never thought... Why was he so angry when she was only being polite?

They sat in silence as she sketched him out on the canvas. He did not once look at her as her pencil rubbed and scratched away the seconds and minutes. The words had not come out right but how could he have known that? She was angry with herself for her thoughtlessness but it soon morphed into a something akin to resentment for him reacting so cruelly. Resentment that he was, in his own way, correct to point out her ignorance.

 _This is a disaster._

After the silence became insufferable, Sansa spoke up keeping her voice neutral, "Do you mind if I put on a program? I believe "Escape" will be on soon."

"It's your studio. Do what you want."

Sansa rose from her stool and crossed to her mahogany radio that stood guard nestled between her shelf that housed her brushes, cleaners, and paints, and an old milk crate that held her old newspapers she used to dry brushes on. Turning it on, the machine purred the welcomed static murmurs as she went from channel to channel. A station provided by CBS was the one she had in mind. Finding it, the radio was relaying the nightly five minutes of news that was read at the end of each program. Sansa sat back down glad to have something else to take space in the room even if it was alongside their bristling emotions.

A smooth voice read an ad for Lucky Strike Cigarettes and was abruptly followed by the ominous theme music for "Escape."

" _ **Escape! Transcribed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure!"**_ enthusiastically projected the voice.

Then it switched to the narrator who started it off. " _ **You are aboard the Orient Express rushing through the European night bound for Istanbul. And in your compartment with you, a gun pointed at your head, a small mysterious stranger is about to take your life."**_

The episode followed Gregory Myers, the main character of the show. During this episode he ran into a cute blonde named Carol who is taking the train to her new job in Istanbul. He gallantly took her under his wing after finding out she had no money and had not eaten a decent meal in days.

The tension between the two in the room receded as the as each sentence of the adventure filled the room. Sansa was surprised to hear The Hound laugh when Gregory was knocked cold by the stories antagonist. He laughed when the journalist, Ms. Warren distracted the villainous guard with a kiss so that her friends could escape. The episode ended with Carol continuing to go on her way leaving the protagonist to wait for this next adventure.

Lulled from her attention to her canvas and the story, Sansa started in her seat when the Hound spoke up a few minutes into the big band special that had followed, "As far as "Escape" goes, that episode wasn't all bad. I think it would have been a better twist if Carol had betrayed him and been the villain though."

"The villain!" Sansa was stunned that he would think this and that he was talking to her again at all. "Why, that would have ruined the pull of unrequited love at the ending!"

"All I'm saying is that Carol was a bit of a tart," said The Hound.

Sansa scoffed. "Carol was a sweetheart! She was just trying to start a new life for herself and you have no idea what she could have been leaving behind. And!" she had paused her pencil to point it at him. "And what are you implying with "as far as "Escape" goes," Mr. Clegane?"

"Escape" is all peachy if you want a story whose main hero is duped and gets himself knocked out all the time, but Philip Marlowe, now he's the real deal. He's quick witted and can throw a punch when he needs to. He's not afraid to bend the rules. Absolutely no competition who would win in that fight," The Hound said with a smug look on his face.

"Why is it always about who can throw a better punch?"

"Greggory got himself knocked out by a doctor!"

"Only because it was a cheap shot from behind!"

" _And_ he left Carol alone in that compartment with the guy who just had a gun pointed at them. But that doesn't matter because he was so gallent to buy her meals?"

Sansa made a face. "You have a point there I guess. I would have been so perplexed if I were Carol." The Hound made a good argument. The villain had them trapped in a sleeper car with a gun pulled. It was only because none of them could stay awake through the entirety of the night that Gregory had snatched the gun. He had then left Carol alone with this man so that he could find help. Now that Sansa thought on it, Gregory should have sent Carol off to safety to find help instead.

The serene voices of Kathryn Grayson and Mario Lanza then took the floor. It was a special that was probably promoting their new roles in "That Midnight Kiss," a technicolor film that was going to be released in a few days. Mario was introduced and his tenor notes sauntered around the room weaving between canvases and out through an open window. The night was filled with "Mamma mia che vo sape."

Sansa smirked and said, "I would wager that Gregory Myers would give Mario Lanza trouble in a brawl." Most of the other artistic types she met were not particularly brawny.

"Lanza? Oh no, I bet even Philip Marlowe would know not to lay a hand on him," said The Hound.

"And why is that?"

"Well for one, he's from Philadelphia and they are scrappy as hell down there. Two," The Hound said lifting up two fingers to which Sansa chided him to stay still. "Two," the Hound continued after resuming his set position, "is that he has mafia connections."

"Please," Sansa said waving him off, "because he is Italian? Not all Italians are in the mob you know."

"That Italian isn't but like I said, he has connections," assured The Hound.

"Have you met him?"

"Lanza? No, but I do know his agent well enough."

Kathryn Grayson was then featured in her own solo of "Can't Help Loving That Man" before the two singers performed a duet for "They Didn't Believe Me." Their voices together were serene in the way only a man and woman's voice can pair. Sansa thought to ask Margaery if she had met Kathryn Grayson yet. Her friend said she met Frank Sinatra at a bar once and he bought her a drink. That he was smaller than she thought he would be but that they all were. That did not take away from his charm though.

"Have you ever been on a sleeper train?" The Hound then asked her as the orchestra contributed with "Autumn in New York."

"A few times when I was a girl. Before the War my family actually traveled to Philadelphia from Portland. I was so little but I remember pretending I was riding on a circus train with the lions and elephants and that we could go anywhere. The world was open for adventure and I had a ticket. I told my baby sister this and she started tossing food into the other sleeper cars ' _for the elephants and seals_.'" Sansa laughed recalling this memory. She wished to see her reckless sister again desperately. It had been too long and New York could use some of her icy fire.

"Sounds like she was good to have around if you were going to Philadelphia."

 _Could The Hound be smiling?_

"Have you? Been on a sleeper train, I mean." Sansa inquired even though she was positive he had to have been with all the traveling he must do.

"I used to for when I train out in California or when I have a match out there or down south. I don't use the sleeper car too often though. Recently I've started driving more."

"Why is that?"

"I am too damn big for the bed. Plus driving allows me to stop and sleep on a real mattress."

Sansa could not help but to giggle at this, imagining him with his feet hanging off the tiny beds and bumping his head on the ceiling.

The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence only to be interrupted by a comment here or there about the song playing or an item from the news. The Hound no longer wore the scowl on his face that had placed itself there earlier in the night. Rather, he looked deep in thought with his eyes in his lap. He really was doing a much better job at remaining in the same position and staying still than Sansa had imagined he would. Maybe it was the military training that attributed to it. She had not considered this but the hypothesis made sense. They all brought back queer quirks with them when they- if they, returned.

A nagging thought from the back of her mind urged her to eye the clock. It told her the night was nearing ten and Sansa was thrown by how quickly the hours had slipped away.

"Oh my goodness, I just caught the time! I promise I did not intend to keep you so late, Mr. Clegane I apologize."

"Don't fuss yourself… or maybe do." The Hound slowly stood up from his sitting place and added, "I think my ass fell asleep."

The Hound removed his robe and handed it to Sansa. Without thought, she held it tight to her chest as she turned from him while he clothed. She did not want to be caught staring again. She would remain professional and make sure the night ended on a good note. He stepped around her with his bag slung across his shoulder once more to look at the progress she had made. With the time they had spent, Sansa had successfully managed to render The Hound's likeness with a little too much detail. No matter how many portraits she had under her belt, Sansa always found herself carried away with the initial sketching. It was easy to become caught up in a person.

She saw what could be read as approval on his face this time. "And we have to make sure I sit exactly like that next time?" he asked her.

"Yes," Sansa told him simply. Mario Lanza was beginning to sing "I Know, I Know, I Know," in the background mated almost painfully with romantic strings. Sansa could feel the start of a blush creeping onto her face.

Looking down on her now The Hound softly questioned, "And when is next time going to be?"

He was standing so close to her again. Sansa needed to move around to clear her head of the fuzziness that was slinking in there somehow. Rid herself of the fuzziness that was spreading to her stomach. She grabbed her long braid in her hands to give her something to busy herself with now lacking the pencil.

"My next opening is Tuesday evening," Sansa told him. He followed behind her as she made her way to show him out. Tomorrow, Sansa decided it would be a day off to clean her apartment and prepare for painting Mrs. Garth's goddaughter the following morning. Monday nights Sansa and Margaery always went out to dinner to recap their weekends and plan for whatever was coming next.

The Hound shook his head and shifted his feet. "No, no I don't think that works for me."

Sansa went to her desk to consult her scheduling book and asked, "Wednesday at Noon?"

"I can only stay for a couple of hours." He ran a hand through his hair.

"Perfect. That is just enough time for me to make some practical progress and for your rear to fall asleep again I think," she playfully replied.

He actually smiled at this. "Oh I will make sure I leave before that happens then."

She followed him to the door. As he put his shoes on his feet and retrieved his jacket, Sansa stepped into her slippers and grabbed the neighboring apartment keys again.

"I should feed Mr. Bean before I get in more trouble with him." Sansa said awkwardly and not sure if she should shake his hand before he left her.

She shut the door behind as they both stepped out into the hall. Mr. Bean's door was on the route to the elevator The Hound would be riding to leave so they walked the short distance together. The Hound nodded his head at her when she stopped at the neighboring door and meant to continue his walk down the hallway when Sansa hastily chirped, "Mr. Clegane?"

He paused his steps to turn his body back to face her in the doorway. And again Sanas felt almost crowded by how large he was and even more so that his mere presence loomed over her. It invaded her space and threatened to overpower her. She must remember to breathe.

"I want to apologize for what I said earlier. For what I said about scars and moles and birthmarks. It was wrong of me, I realized. I had not been thoughtful or had considered how rude my comment could be without proper care- What I am trying to say is that it came out wrong and I only meant to assure you that …"

The man in front of her closed his eyes as he said, "You don't have to worry yourself with the feelings of a mean dog like me. It is easily forgotten, girl." The Hound looked tired for the first time that night when he spoke. There was a hint of regret in his voice that she did not miss. For the first time that night, Sansa wondered if he had regretted his words too.

"So I will be seeing you at noon this Wednesday then, Mr. Clegane?" Sansa affirmed feeling suddenly lighter. Her breath quickening in her chest at the thought.

"Are you always this formal, _Miss Stark?"_ The way he said her name was like a mocking version of how Mrs. Gath's footman had introduced her. Like he had been there to see how absurd it was.

"Only with those I am trying to seal a commission with," she flung back looking him in the eyes more sure of herself.

A laugh that was more bark escaped him. This was not the first time he seemed to find humor is her words that night. It was strange to come from him, this monster of a man who had always translated as heartless in the papers.

"You want to know why I changed my mind?" he asked, now very much serious and without a trace of laughter on his features. It was the question that she had been asking herself over and over again throughout the day. She could not for the life of her come to a conclusion as to why he seemed to have a change of heart. He continued, "Last night, I could not imagine a woman like you would want to bother yourself painting someone like me. But I changed my mind and came to you because I knew that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I never saw you again."

Sansa was speechless. It was the only word for it. To her annoyance she could not keep her answers simple or strictly professional throughout the evening when he asked her questions, but here, now, after he had spoken this, Sansa found herself out of words and her mind a blank slate. Like the air had rushed in around her and stopped it all. This was not one of the many explanations she had imagined.

"So yes, Miss Stark, you will be seeing me at noon on Wednesday." His eyes were burning her again as they explored her features. She felt the hard door press up against her back. It were as if they were in a different hallway again under those dim lights. Only them.

Until Mr. Bianchi coughed at the other end of the hall.

When Sansa still had nothing to say, The Hound turned away to leave her and continued no his way to the elevator. The soft thumping of his heavy feet and the subtle swing of his bag with him. A man who maybe was not what she thought he was. Possibly more.

Sansa heard herself voice out, "Goodnight, Sandor."

"Goodnight, Sansa," was murmured with what sounded like the hint of a smile.

Sansa watched him round the corner to disappear and only then did she unlock the door to find Mr. Bean sitting a few feet inside illuminated in the moonlight. Like Beanie and the Moon had been eavesdropping.

"You heard that, right?" Sansa asked the cat.


	3. Chapter 3 I Can't Get You Off Of My Mind

He was sitting in her studio chair again and had been for maybe half an hour. The chair was comfortable enough, he gave her that. Knee's modestly spread with his hands resting on each, Sandor could already feel his legs start to twitch with restlessness. But if he was stuck here, then Sansa was too. The difference was that she moved about more freely than he was permitted but that was just fine for him. He had her all for himself. Sitting opposite her granted him the opportunity to study the way her slender, naked foot tapped the cloth covered floor along with the beat of the record, and to note how she would scrunch her little nose or chew on her bottom lip when mixing a color. She had on a lipstick today that only accentuated her porcelain features and skin that looked as soft as milk. He soaked in her subtle back and forth glances that danced between him and the canvas. Sandor liked being studied by her even if it was more of an obligation than a choice. He admired how the paintbrush looked long and elegant in her delicate hands and how her movements were thoughtfully measured and deliberate. If he had to sit still then this is how he preferred to do so.

Sansa Stark, he guessed, was a creature of the night by the way she continuously yawned. Even though she daintily covered her mouth like a polite little lady and tried to hide behind the canvas to do so; Sandor found himself struggling to fight back his own yawns. His tiredness was more from the aftereffects of a full stomach rather than entertaining the hours of twilight. Leaving his gym later than he would have liked after a ruthless cardio workout Bronn had devised, Sandor barely had time to shower let alone eat. Consequently, he decided to grab lunch from a deli he spotted on his drive to her apartment. It was that or suffer a growling belly in front of her. The shop was a little Italian place that had an assortment of mouthwatering fresh breads and cheeses displayed in the wide front window. Upon entering he was welcomed with a few handshakes from fellow customers but it did not escape his notice that some had also shrunk away at the sight of him. Someone always did.

The place looked like it had been around forever but it was clean. The smells he was hit with were enough to elicit a fresh growl from his stomach. It was good enough for him. Customers ahead in line had insisted that he order before them. In his experience, Sandor realized that it was best to appease these wishes. Otherwise feelings were hurt and conversations were annoyingly drawn out. An older Italian woman, who he assumed ran the joint, commanded the register. Like her customers, she had recognized him immediately and called for all of her workers to come out front and center alongside her.

 _Oh no. Here come the troops..._

"The Hound here in our very deli! I never would have believed it!" The woman was talking so loudly Sandor bet innocent passersby could hear her outside. Before he even had the chance to form an awkward reply she continued, "These are my sons and grandsons-" She had rattled off all six of them but when these sorts of introductions were made Sandor never paid attention to the names knowing they would float from his mind quickly. She could put a general to shame with how disciplined they stood there. Continuing with pride she exclaimed, "We never miss a match of yours, Hound. It's always a big event in our house when they announce it on the radio!"

"I'm flattered ma'am-"

"You must be wanting something to eat!" She waved her hands at the boys and men who scurried back to their stations. "What will you be having, dear?"

"That depends on what you recommend, Miss-?" Sandor smiled. Women like her always loved when he asked what they would order. It was something Bronn had taught him. It was also faster to get in and out this way.

"Miss!" Her eyes crinkled as she laughed a deep hearty laugh that was almost infectious. It was obvious why she was in charge with such commanding energy about her. Also it did no harm that she was undoubtedly handsome. "I have not been a Miss for a long time! Everyone here calls me M. As far as sandwiches go, my favorite is the Pinocchio. Comes with prosciutto, sopressata, fresh mozzarella, sweet roasted peppers and olive paste."

"Well M, I'll take two of those." Feeling a bit silly, Sandor made the spur of the moment decision to add an extra sandwich to his order just in case. He figured the worst outcome was that Sansa Stark had already eaten and he could just claim they were both for him. _Or maybe it'll impress her._ Pulling out his wallet he asked, "How much?"

M swatted at him bellowing, "No no darling, you eat here for free!"

Maybe it was the thought of Sansa that lightened his tone. "M, I insist. For your boys at least?" Sandor pulled out more money than was needed. He never had a problem turning down free meals from the expensive restaurants or men in suits, but in places like this with good honest people working there, he knew every penny counted.

With a girlish giggle M grabbed and said, "Why The Hound is a gentleman!" While doing so her hands wandered up his forearm before taking the money. Sandor internally rolled his eyes.

 _Oh my god why do they always feel me up?_

"So," she went on slipping the money inside her shirt, "How are you feeling about your match coming up with Bobby Smalls? He's quite good, isn't he but I think you will make an easy job of him. Are you already training for it? I heard you go out to California now for your more intensive training. Will you be going this time?"

Sandor tried his best to keep the annoyance from rising to his face. The press always wrote about how mean The Hound was but that never seemed to stop certain people from peppering him with their questions and opinions. Usually they were the same questioned repeated over and over again. It was tiring and frustrating. He counted to five to make sure she was at least coming up for air and said, "I'm not worried, I have, and yes I will be going to California."

"Of course you are not worried! Why would you be? How is California? I heard it is breathtaking. I would love to take a trip and get out of this dirty city myself." Sandor could not help but stare at her. How was she asking so many questions so fast? Did she even breathe?

Ignoring these questions Sandor heard someone cough behind him. "M do you want me to move aside so you can take everyone else's order?"

"You're sandwiches are almost ready no worries, love! Tell me, what was it like winning your belt? Where the parties as glamorous as people say?"

Before she could throw more at him, one of the younger grandchildren appeared next to her elbow. With messy hair and a shy smile he snuck Sandor his brown paper bag and mouthed "Run."

Taking this advice, Sandor snatched the bag and gingerly backed away from the counter saying, "Well it's been fun, M but I have to run."

"But I didn't even get to ask you about the restaurant you are opening!"

"Next time!" he said slipping out the door. The bell rang to his successful escape.

 _Christ, these better be the best goddamn sandwiches in New York,_ Sandor thought as he all but sprinted to his car parked out front.

Jumping in with the paper-bag on the seat next to him, Sandor continued on his way to Sansa's. Butterflies quickly and unwelcomed started fluttering disturbing his stomach. Tapping his thumbs against his steering wheel, he willed his mind to think about any of his other obligations. Anything to put a stop to this ridiculousness. _Bronn needs to check the pipes in the bathroom while I'm gone. We'll probably have to call a guy for them. We have a meeting later today with Stanley. I still need to work out getting a liquor license..._

 _I wonder if Sansa will think the sandwich is too much. Should it just eat it in the car? No, that will make me late… dammit._

Parked, Sandor went against his instincts and got out with the lunches. Soon enough he was launching himself up the stairs. At her door, Sandor adjusted his white button up shirt that had started to become untucked. _Why am I fixing this? I'm just going to take it off._

He knocked. Behind the door he heard a "Come in!"

Closing the door behind him and trying to push down the embarrassment that he felt, Sandor lifted up the brown bag and said, "I didn't have a chance to lunch so I made a stop on the way. Hope you don't mind that I picked some up for you too…"

To his satisfaction, Sandor had guessed correctly that Sansa had lost track of time and had not taken a lunch yet either. "Oh my goodness!" She exclaimed, longs legs leaping from her couch. "I had not even realized how hungry I was but now that I smell whatever you brought I am starving!" Running to her tiny kitchen table, Sansa cleared away a tea cup and an newspaper that was opened to the gossip section. After she had retrieved two glasses of water she continued, "This is beyond kind of you, Sandor. Thank you."

Sitting in the wooden chair opposite hers he distributed the sandwiches. "I was already buying one. What difference is two?" He said watching as she unwrapped her own lunch with dainty fingers.

"No this is lovely. I must repay you. Where did you buy them?" She spoke quickly before stopping to take a bite and covering her mouth as she chewed. _She's cute even when she eats._

Minding his own manners, Sandor pulled his sandwich back from his mouth before informing her, "It was some Italian deli I passed by on the way here. I didn't look at the name but the woman who ran it went by M if that helps at all."

Almost dropping her sandwich, Sansa made a small squeaking noise as she fought between a broad smile with trying to chew.

"What?" Sandor mumbled through his own food filled mouth.

With a breath as if chewing stopped her from it, Sansa burst out clearly excited, "M's! You went to M's? I love M's, no wonder this sandwich is so delicious."

Sandor had to agree that his was good. "Yeah, the sandwich is pretty damn good but M is one character."

This time Sansa did drop her sandwich and dug through the paper bag they arrived in. Smiling, what appeared to be an sassy smile he had not seen before, she asked the question, "No rolls?'

Squinting his eyes and sensing a trap Sandor asked, "Isn't that enough bread for you?"

"Exactly. It is enough, but M always gives me an _extra roll_. She must not have liked _The Hound_ as much as she likes me." She looked smug as she went back to her food and Sandor understood now.

Offended, he leaned forward in his chair. "I'll have you know I barely made it out of there alive! The woman bombarded me with questions! I only escaped because one of the grandchildren slipped me the bag."

"Was it the smallest?" Sansa questioned with a giggle.

Thinking back Sandor had been too overwhelmed to get a good look at anyone else in the shop. "Probably… He had a gap in his teeth."

"Marco. He may be the youngest but he is the bravest. I think he knows that M loves him best for it."

"So what makes you so deserving of an extra roll other than being such an obvious regular?"

Sansa's eyebrows arched as she retorted, "Why sir, I think the question is not what makes me so deserving but what makes you so undeserving."

"Haven't you heard? The Hound is a mean brute, Red," he said as he crumbled up the paper the sandwich had been wrapped in.

She rolled her eyes at him as if she did not believe it. "Or maybe," Sansa had leaned in conspiratorially, "it is because she does not wish you to marry one of her sons."

"What?"

"I think- no I know- M is genuinely trying to butter me up so I will go on a date with a son or grandchild."

"And why won't you? You'd be well fed that's for sure."

"Oh well, I guess it is because if I actually said yes what would happen if the date was horrible? I would never be able to show my face there again and the food is too good to lose!"

They both shared a laugh at this but Sandor also felt a sense of relief. _So she's not married._ Sandor had not been sure. Though she did not wear a wedding ring, Sansa seemed like the type of woman who would be married already. Most girls these days married young. Come to think of it, he was not even sure about Sansa's age. _Maybe she is already seeing someone but is being modest._

Once she had finished her food, Sandor helped her clear the table and followed her into the studio.

Blinking the memory from his mind, Sandor came to at just the right moment for another of Sansa's yawns. This time he could not stifle his own. She almost scolded him as he lifted a hand to cover his mouth, but had grinned instead realizing the chain of events.

Sansa was, yet again, wearing those pants she had on from the first night. Tan and loose fitting, they only made Sandor think about what those mile long legs looked like underneath. She still sat like a lady in them with her knees close together. Frankly, Sandor had never found women wearing pants attractive. Pants on a woman was not a look he truly appreciated before, but man was he thrown when she opened the door that first night. She looked nothing like the be-gowned woman he had met at the opera; yet somehow she was still as shockingly beautiful even in far less extravagant clothing. Seeing her at the opera had felt like finding clarity to a question he had been stumbling through for years. She had an indescribable light to her. It threw him off kilter. He half expected to find her all dolled up again for their first appointment. It had surprised- but more so impressed him, to see her in normal clothing. He took from it that she did not the feel the need to indulge him this way, but rather took her commission seriously. She truly wanted to paint him.

The record began to crackle asking to be flipped over to the reverse side. Sansa rose with an expression of concentration on her face. She mindlessly attended to the record and drifted back to her easel unseeingly. _She could walk that path and flip a record blindfolded._ Her hair was not worn in a braid today but fell down her back in loose red waves that were wrapped in a headscarf at her crown. As the long length of it swayed behind her, Sandor realized that this was the first time he had seen the brilliance of her in daylight. He had never seen a woman's hair shine quite like hers. It was as if it were a bonfire during a sunset flecked with gold. When Sansa glanced right from her canvas she locked eyes with him. Blue with gray. Despite himself, Sandor's breath caught in his chest. She quickly looked away.

"What do you think Yankees chances are making it to the World Series?" Sandor heard himself ask her.

That was the bit that had Sandor so perplexed over Sansa Stark, not the question (the Yankees were fine), but that he had even _asked_ her the question. Coming from Bronn, and really anyone who knew him as Sandor Clegane and not The Hound, he was not a particularly chatty man with people outside his immediate group. The Hound's desire and motives to make conversation, well that depended on the night. But with her, Sandor couldn't help it.

Sandor was not a man who ever felt the need to explain himself or justify his actions. Yet, that first night she had painted him, he already showed her one of his cards- his reasons for coming to her. It was not something he had planned to ever let escape his barriers but she had looked so unsure of herself fumbling to apologize for her remarks of scars and birthmarks. An apology that he was positive he did not deserve after his harsh words in retaliation. Sansa Stark was not a woman who deserved to ever feel unsure of herself, let alone in front of a man like him. So he confessed that he had needed to see her again. Words flowed unplanned and though he tried to run from the feeling, he knew it was because he felt compelled to make her see him for the man he was, Sandor Clegane, not The Hound he portrayed. That he knew their time was limited and that he would damn well try to make the most of it.

"The Yankees?" Sansa repeated. Sandor had noticed the other night how easy it was for her to simply drift off into the realm of her own thoughts when she was painting. "Oh, I wholeheartedly believe they are going to at least make it to the World Series."

"Aren't you worried about the Sox though? They are only a game under us. "

"Loras says- have you met Loras Tyrell?" She she said returning to cantering between him and the canvas standing between them. "You must know that he is Margaery's brother, I am sure. He says that if it comes to it, we'll have to win our series against them at home. He has complete confidence they will do it too. Joe DiMaggio is going to be healthy again."

Sandor was surprised by this. "DiMaggio's coming back? That's good news then."

"Yes, Loras says the doctors are planning to clear him soon."

 _Loras Tyrell huh._ "Are you close friends with Loras?" Sandor felt a pang in his chest when Sansa's face brightened with a grin. A low grumble vibrated through him. Loras Tyrell was famously handsome and was almost as equally known for his skills on the field as a Yankee. Whether it be alternating between left field or first base or hitting clean up, Loras never failed to wow the crowd. The women flocked to him like mindless birds whenever he graced a bar or social club with his presence. He was the exact type of man he could see a woman like Sansa being taken with.

"Can I tell you a secret, Sandor?" She had a different look in her eye as she searched his face.

"I won't tell a soul, promise."

"Well... when I first moved here, you know I was not having the most success with my paintings. Margaery had heard of me from a mutual friend who I modeled for in exchange for studio space. One day she had phoned me expressing the desire to see some of my paintings, so we arranged a proper meeting. We were fast friends. After purchasing one of my particularly detail intensive still lifes, Margaery had insisted I reside with her until I found my footing in the art community. She has done so much for me…" Sandor saw that Sansa was no longer painting, but staring out the window as if it were a porthole into her past. Paintbrush dangling between slender fingers, she continued, "Margaery and I both designed my fake persona."

"Alan Stone," Sandor said remembering the business card she handed him at the Opera.

"Yes," she said flowing her gaze back to him. "It was such a crazy idea that it was destined to work. It just had to. We needed a little bit more help than simply coming up with a man's name though. Margaery recruited Loras to pose as Alan Stone and sell a majority of my completed paintings as though they were his own. Alan Stone was birthed and buyers loved him. He was young, talented, and well educated. Charming, really." Sansa paused for a moment to concentrate on globbing the perfect amount of black paint onto her pallet. After succeeding she added, "It was a kind favor on his part. He would never take a portion of the earnings no matter how much I begged him to."

"Wait, step back a second. You're telling me that fucking _Loras Tyrell_ was selling your art?" Sandor could not even picture it in his mind.

 _Watch your mouth in front of her, Clegane._

"He was indeed," Sansa laughed and continued, "though this was before the Yankees signed him as a free agent and he took the city by fire! Just like me, he was still trying to make it in the big leagues himself. Actually, he was starting to become quite the hit in the art community."

"That's pretty genius…" Sandor considered his next words for a moment before releasing them to potentially snag onto an answer that he would not be happy with. "So if he did not take a commission, what did Loras get in return for his help?"

"Oh- well..." Sansa hesitated. Her face clouding with concern.

Raising his hand and crossing his heart Sandor repeated, "Not a soul." It was an old habit from childhood. It surprised him that it came back in this moment. What was it about Sansa?

She spoke more quietly as she confessed, "I did wonder in the beginning of the arrangement if he agreed to this task as a way to become close with me. It quickly became apparent that I was incorrect." A small smile played across her features rendering her humble. "He became quite fond of my friend, Ronald. I believe he was the reason Loras played along for so long." Sansa looked up at Sandor with worry in her eyes as if she were afraid of how he would respond.

Sandor had met plenty of homophobic people but it was never a mindset he agreed with. With his scars he knew what it was like to be judged harshly by people who had no right. He knew what it was like to be shamed for something he could not control. He _could not_ imagine being treated with such hatred and disdain for a part of himself that brought happiness though. He could not imagine having his safety threatened because of it. No he did not have any ill will against people who merely wanted to love someone. He knew who the real monsters in this world were.

"I can understand that then," was his only reply thinking of their situation- why he told her he changed his mind. It elicited a blush from her that she probably hoped he would not notice.

They sat in silence for a bit until the music from the record turned into a bored static hum. Sansa offered to fill his empty glass of water after she switched on her radio.

He took the liberty of this impromptu break to stand up and stretch his legs, knee cracking as he rose. Her studio fascinated him. Never being friends with an artist, Sandor had not known what to expect. He definitely did not expect the space to be so full of life. Vases and trinkets populated most surfaces. Some paintings and sketches of select objects were hanging up on free wall space or somewhere nearby. It was apparent that she was dedicated to drawing everything she could, even if the object was ordinary. There were spoons, glasses, and a key. Every drawing was treated with immense care and she seemed only see the beauty in her surroundings. It all felt like her.

Pacing over to the pedestal nearest to the window, he frowned to see that her pink roses had begun to wilt in their vase. There were half a dozen different sketches of them laid on the wide pedestal all with varying vantage points, closeness, and level of detail.

Sandor could hear her half singing half humming along with the radio from the kitchen. It was such an innocent sound. Taking a sweep of her studio he found that one of her portraits had gone missing, though in its place was the beginnings of charcoal drawing taking the shape of a building. _How do I know this place_? It was a piece of paper about the size of his chest taped to a wooden board.

Returning, Sansa came to stand next to him with newly filled glasses. She was a tall woman, but in her bare feet her head only reached the tip of his chin. Standing so close, Sandor could smell faint traces of something citrusy and maybe something piney.

After doing his best to be polite and thanking her, Sandor pointed to the drawing with his glass and asked, "What building is this? I feel like I recognize it but I'm not sure."

"It is The Metropolitan Opera House from it's west side," Sansa told him quietly taking a sip from her glass. "I have a friend who lives near it. They have been kind enough to allow me to sit in their window and draw the view. It is a wonderful sight."

"Is it for sale?"

"Oh- but it is more of a perspective exercise than a sellable piece and I have only just begun to sketch it..." Sansa absentmindedly rubbed her free hand along her pant leg leaving a trace of black paint there. Black paint, Sandor then noticed, had escaped onto his glass and his own hand. Following her example, he lowered his hand down to his pant leg-

"No! Oh my goodness _do not_ wipe your hands! Oil paint will _never_ come out." Sansa whipped around and trotted across the room to her paints. Red hair flowing the whole way. Having put down her glass, she returned just as quickly with a white cloth and a small jar of clear liquid. "This is turpentine. It is a chemical I use to clean my oil brushes. Soap and water work well enough to clean acrylic paints but not oil." The chemical was pungent and the source of the slightly piney smell about her. Dipping a small portion of the cloth inside, Sansa placed the jar on the easel ledge against the charcoal drawing. Turning back with her hands expecting him she said, "Come on, give me your hands. You have paint on both."

Holding his left out to her, Sansa cradled it in her left hand and began rubbing away the paint with her right. She worked with just enough pressure not to tickle. The cloth was turning a washed out gray and the paint on her fingers had begun to wipe away as well, mixing with his. Her hands were small compared to his. Where his fingers were thick and strong, Sansa's were long, elegant, and almost too soft against his calloused ones.

The hand holding him turned his palm over while she checked for more paint. Finding none she dropped it and motioned for the other. To Sandor's delight there was more paint on his left hand. Sansa's brow was furrowed as she worked. A light dusting of freckles covered her pink cheeks. Her lips formed a slight pout. Her breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her quickened breaths. Sandor realized he was breathing a little faster than normal too. She was so close. Whether it have been instinctual or brought up from a desire lit inside him, this time when she finished checking the backside of this hand, Sandor let his fingertips trace her own before she could release him. His hands tingled where she had touched him.

Cheeks reddening even more, Sansa clutched the cloth between her hands searching his face. God he wanted to kiss her. But what would she think? Would she take offense? She so clearly took pride in being professional about her work.

Turning, Sandor picked up her jar from the easel. Contemplating the drawing for a moment he said, "Well, when it is finished I would like to see it and consider buying it. That is, if you are willing to part with it. My office in the restaurant will also need something- what did your friend Margaery describe them as- classy and sophisticated?" He looked down at her and was graced with a smile that reached her eyes. Blue that reminded him of a crystal lake he explored when he as child. One that held hidden secrets and promised magic, just like her eyes.

"How are the restaurant plans progressing? I imagine there is a heap of work that is required for such an opening."

"It is a lot more work than Bronn and I had initially anticipated being that neither of us have college degrees or any experience in the restaurant business. There is an old Army buddy of ours who does though, and he is advising us. Without him, I hate to say it, but we would not have gotten this far. We actually have a meeting with a potential head chef today which is why I cannot stay long."

"Are you hiring someone who specializes in desserts?" Sansa asked.

Sandor frowned. "I didn't think about that."

"But you must have excellent desserts or I will have to sadly decline your invitation to the opening."

 _Invitation?_ "You want to come to the opening?"

"I would be wounded otherwise! I want to see your portrait in its new home! Sir, I never miss the opportunity to admire what a work looks like in its finished setting." Sansa said with a falsely serious face while she moved back to her stool and placed her water on the floor.

He had not even considered it, that she would be interested in coming to the restaurant when it opened. Now that she pointed it out it made perfect sense. Maybe it would be a way for him to continue seeing her after she finished the portrait. He could invite her for free meals. Weighing this new possibility, Sandor resumed his pose in the chair with relatively decent accuracy. He was getting the hang of maintaining the same position.

"When I came in earlier, you were reading a book. What was it?" Sandor asked her with genuine interest. When she had called for him to enter the apartment she had been sprawled on a sofa nearly upside down with a book in her hands. She almost jumped out of her skin when he greeted her. Sandor wondered if she had even been cognizant of the fact that she had called out in response to the knock on her door.

Reaching over to her cart that held her paintbrushes Sansa replied offhandedly, " _Pride and Prejudice_."

"Is that Jane Austen?"

"Why, yes…" She leaned to the side on her stool head cocked to the side looking at him.

Sandor squinted his eyes at her while he spoke, "What's that look for? I may not be the most educated man but I am not illiterate!"

"No! I- it is only that I did not expect-" She looked embarrassed.

"A man like me to read or know who Jane Austen is? Why, Miss Stark you wound me…" Sandor put his hands to his chest as though he were in monumental pain. Sansa simultaneously managed to giggle and scold him to stay still threatening him with a paintbrush. He wondered if she would throw it at him if he tried hard enough. "So are you enjoying it? I have never personally read anything from Austen myself."

"Yes, yes very much so." Sansa smiled again as one does when thinking of a good book. "As you saw then, I am having the most difficult time putting it down."

"It's a love story, right?"

"It is so much more than a love story! Elizabeth, our protagonist, is brilliantly vivid and has such a developed strong sense of self. She is pleasant and kind and loves to laugh while Mr. Darcy is cold and critical and reserved. Have you read Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing?_ She is not too dissimilar to Beatrice at times-"

"So she hates men."

"No, she does not hate men! She merely can see past their ill constructed masks and never shies away from arguing with them when she does not agree with their point of view. Though never rudely so. She is not afraid of ruining their image of her nor is she meek enough to take stock in every word from a person." Sansa looked determined as she slapped on a dab of white paint to mix with another color she must have on her pallet already.

Intrigued Sandor wanted to know as much about this book and her thoughts on the characters as possible. One's opinions on books was reflective of one's own character. It made sense that Sansa seemed to be so enraptured by Austen's Elizabeth. From their few brief meetings it was easy to determine that Sansa was also a woman who loved to laugh but also a woman who was made up of selfless kindness. "Who is Mr. Darcy?"

Obviously pleased that he wanted to continue talking about her book Sansa spoke in an almost sing song voice, "He is the love interest of course."

"Is he a good love interest?"

She took a deep inhale and a slow exhale. Then she bit her lip while she gathered words. "I am not sure yet. What makes a good love interest? He is not charming, at least not to Elizabeth. His friends love him so he must be good to them. There are hints sprinkled about that he has a bad past maybe. Though really I think there is much more to him than Elizabeth knows at the moment. I hope she is not rash when she finds out."

"Everyone has secrets that come out eventually. Maybe it won't be as bad as she thinks. Do you think they'll end up together in the end?" Sandor asked.

His words seemed to make Sansa a little nervous or at least he thought so by the way she blushed and focused on the paintbrush she was scratching at with her nail. "They have to, right? I am not far along in the book but I have a knack for knowing who will end up together in such stories."

"Love stories," Sandor poked.

"What do you read then?" Sansa huffed and looked up from her paintbrush at him. "Cheesy detective novels like your Philip Marlowe?"

Sandor laughed at her boldness and emboldened himself that she remembered a novelty like Philip Marlowe. "Secretly yes, those are a guilty pleasure of mine. I am more drawn to fantasy novels though."

Now it was Sansa's turn to poke at him. "Fantasy novels- like dragons and magic?" He could see it by the look on her face that she imagined knights and dragons and silly things that were more for children than hulking men who could kill a person with one punch.

"Exactly dragons and magic. Tolkien? Please tell me you have at least heard of Tolkien." When she looked blankly at him he continued, "The Hobbit?"

"Toll-keen? Hob-bite? They sound like pretend words to me, Mr. Wizard-" Sandor knew she was pronouncing the words wrong on purpose.

"Red, Tolkien is not a made up word. He is only the best author ever. Now hobbit is _made up_ but they are only a fragment of the species and fully developed languages that Tolkien has created-"

The egg timer Sansa had set rang with sudden urgency interrupting the conversation.

"My goodness, is it two already?" Sansa sighed.

Standing, Sandor shrugged out of his robe and handed it to Sansa who had padded over to retrieve it. It had been pressed and hung on one of her larger easels when he arrived. The thought of her holding it, running the smooth silk material through her hands, if only to iron it created a burning inside of him.

Back in his normal clothing, they had walked out to her living room when her phone began to ring. Sansa glanced over at it on her desk and bit her lip. She probably did not want to be rude.

"Go ahead. I need to run anyways. I'll call you to schedule the next session." Sandor said when she looked back at the phone a second time.

"I do not want to be rude," Sansa insisted.

Giving her a reassuring smile he waved his hand towards it, "You're not. Go on before you miss

it." He watched as she pranced to it from across the room.

Turning his back he heard her sing, "Sansa Stark."

Sandor grabbed his black leather shoes placed by the door and sat on the sofa nearby. He looked up as he was tying the laces. Sansa was perched on the edge of her desk holding the eggshell yellow receiver to her face. The desk was placed in front of a window and next to the balcony door. She looked like the most beautiful being he had ever seen illuminated in the afternoon sun.

"Arya! Yes, everything is fine. I was not expecting to hear from you for another week is all!"

 _The sister._

Sansa has a look of pure happiness on her face. It was a intimate look. A hand was held over her heart and her eyes were closed but he could feel the smile that radiated from them.

So this is what it would look like to be loved by her.

Suddenly Sandor felt like an intruder. Making quick work of his other shoe, he snatched his jacket from the hook inside the closet door. At the door he looked over his shoulder and found her watching him intently. Her eyes met his. They pierced him.

Her smile faded as though she remembered something she had forgotten. "You're finally coming to visit? Arya, of course I will have you. You know there is nothing that would please me more!" Sansa lifted her hand from her chest and waved a small goodbye to him. He closed the door.

Sandor exited past the doorman with a nod of his head. Tom was it? The night of his first session the man had introduced himself and pleasantly asked if Sandor needed assistance. Sandor was sure the man knew who he was but had the decency not to make a big deal about it. He had even pleasantly asked him if he needed assistance. To the doorman's apparent surprise, Sandor told him he was to see a Sansa Stark for a scheduled portrait session and that he remembered the room number.

Walking down the sidewalk, Sandor passed by an elderly woman who was climbing out from a taxi cab. She was well dressed. There was an audible gasp that came from her when he no doubt crossed her line of sight. He turned to glare at the woman but she immediately dropped her gaze with a scoff. Sandor felt his face fall into his customary hard scowl. Plenty of men had come back from overseas with missing limbs but yet people still gasped at his scars as if he were a grotesque.

 _If that hag spent even a minute at a veterans hospital she would not even look twice at me._

For him, being recognized was not one of the perks that being mildly famous offered. Money from promotions was nice. Free drinks and meals were better. Even though most people knew what his face looked like, it did not stop them from grimacing. It did not escape his notice that Sansa had even negatively reacted when she saw him that night at the Opera. She recovered quick enough and with grace. Though her reaction was slight it transformed into embarrassment immediately after. Sandor could handle a negative initial response from a person as long as they had the decency to look him in the face. If they could not offer him that he could not give them his respect. Sansa had looked him proudly in the eyes since the Opera and only gave him smiles. There were no looks of disgust or pity from her. Quickening his pace, Sandor continued towards his parked car down the street.

A perk he did enjoy about his fame was that he had the money to buy a car he never would have dreamed of owning. It was not new off the lot. He could never justify spending that kind of money, but he picked it up from a film director who only kept a car for six months, then moved on. It was a shiny black Cadillac and only had two thousand miles on it when he was given the keys. The interior was a smooth, beige leather and it was his.

The engine hummed and Sandor was on his way back to the gym amongst the taxis and buses and cars. Like a bunch of ants set on reaching their destination just to take off for the next thing. He turned the radio on searching for the station that Sansa had been playing before he had to leave. As he slowed to a stop at a red light, he watched a group of school children as they were herded across the street. Sandor's mind drifted to her studio. What did she do once he left her? Had she finished her phone call with Arya? Was she cleaning up her painting station or had she settled back on her couch with "Pride and Prejudice" again?

Having some extra moments alone in her apartment that first night, Sandor was really able to look around without appearing too nosey. The place was modest and refined, but hints of her personality still shined through. It felt like a home. A book rested on a coffee table. Tea cups squatted distractedly on mindless perches. A framed photograph of her and another young girl posing in front of a garden was placed on the fireplace. _The sister perhaps?_ Some interesting art pieces hung from her walls. She read the paper and listened to old records. There was a desk with an appointment book that suggested that she was just as busy as he was.

A book resting next to a barely drunk cup of tea on sturdy coffee table had caught his attention. Picking it up, Sandor observed that it was a healthily worn paperback copy of George Orwell's _1984_. He smirked to picture her staked out there, too absorbed in the book to drink her tea before it had went cold.

A horn honked and he cursed seeing too late that the light had switched from red to green.


	4. I'll Be A Bachelor Til I Die

His gym was nothing fancy and he knew it. It wasn't meant to be. Many people had tried to convince him to invest his money into modernizing the space and establish it as a more elite and selective training center now that he had "a name". Sandor was definitely tempted at times but when it came down to it, this gym was an extension of him. It might not be considered the best looking, but it was honest and it was gritty. The equipment was kept in excellent condition. The ceilings were high. The wood flooring was even and in good shape. It was clean and created an atmosphere that let a good, honest man breathe and feel like he was alive.

Men came to him from stuffy offices, cramped apartments, the docks and the factories, and whatever other crevice a man could find himself wedged into in this city. His gym was a haven for those wanting to escape. Here the men and boys were expected to put in the work to better themselves, not get a tour of where The Hound trained. Here they treated Sandor like he was one of them. Sure there were plenty who looked up to him but the glint in their eyes was forged of respect, not false admiration because of his celebrity.

Bronn was on the phone in his office when Sandor passed by rapping his knuckles against the glass to let him know he was back. Bronn flipped him off. Sandor smiled.

Sandor's office was much like the gym itself- to the point. No fancy name plate on the door. No expensive trinkets. He didn't even keep his medals or trophies here. He sat down with a thud behind his oak desk and opened an account book methodically checking through the names of those who had and those had not given their month's payment before Bronn sauntered in and closed the door.

"Pete's throwing a party for Ella tonight if you want to grace us with an appearance. I heard he's inviting the new chorus girls from The Latin Quarter," Bronn announced as he plopped down in the opposing chair meant for clients.

 _Oh god no._

Sandor only responded with a groan. To him, Pete's parties were always too crowded in the stuffy hotel rooms he rented. Everyone was packed in like sardines, the company was cheap, and inevitably a fight always broke out.

Bronn paid no mind that Sandor had not given him a proper response to his news but simply continued on, "One of the top ropes on the back ring looks like it's on it's last leg and Jonny brought in another stray. This one looks like he's seen a damn few alley fights too."

"You get this kid into the ring?" Sandor asked wondering if this stray had the determination to keep coming back after the hell Bronn was likely to put him through. Not everyone did. Though they were not "exclusive," that didn't mean they took in people who couldn't keep up.

"Yep." Bronn said with his pointer finger in his mouth probably picking at a hangnail. It must have been a busy time while he was gone Sandor figured, since Bronn had shed his usual dress shirt and was sitting only an undershirt and slacks. "Him and Alec went a quick round but we stopped it after that. Kid needs some formal training before we let him do much of anything. He looked like a feral cat in there swinging about with no control."

Sandor bent his head and went back to reviewing his book- checking off a name here or there. "Make sure I see him next time he comes, eh? Pull out the spare rope from the basement and replace it tomorrow morning then. That should be the last of them so order some more. We don't need to get fucking sued over some weak ropes," he grumbled though he knew his men would never consider it.

"Already done and done, boss. See how much I get done while you're off lounging in painting class with a certain long legged redhead? Don't think I didn't notice that cute smirk on your face when you left here this morning."

 _Smirk?_

Sandor frowned and cautiously eyed Bronn. All he needed was for him to get a whiff and Bronn never let it go. "Stop fucking calling me 'boss', Bronn. And you think it's all tea and roses having to sit there without moving until my ass goes numb?"

To his horror that only made Bronn look more pleased as he leaned forward and said, "Nah mate, I think you love just sitting there all cosy purring like a cat who was just poured a nice big bowl of white, creamy-"

"I do not _smirk_. This is all your fault anyways. I have more important things to do with my time-" Sandor bristled not liking the look on Bronn's face..

A laugh erupted from Bronn. "Bullshit. You're the one who went back with your tail between your legs after telling her off at the Opera. You better be behaving yourself over there," Bronn mock scolded while pointing a finger at him. "We still need more of her paintings for the restaurant and I've been thinking about a few special ones I want."

Returning his attention back to the book Sandor mumbled, "I didn't tell her off."

"Yeah you did, asshole," Bronn shot back sounding serious for once in his life.

Sandor sighed, "What kind of special paintings?" He had given up trying to get any work done and started doodling stars in the corner of the page.

"Well," Bronn said clapping his hands with a look of satisfaction playing on his face as he got up to take a stroll around the room hands on his hips, "You're a boxer and I'm your manager-"

"Really?"

"- _and_ we are opening a joint." He was circling the room like a lazy cat examining all of Sandor's possessions he was already familiar with. A lamp over here. A framed picture from his first fight over there. "We don't have to play too much into it, but people will expect a little taste right? Landscapes and whatnots are all fine and will really add some class, but don't you think we should mix in some boxing stuff? Nothing too corny, but real _sophisticated_ pieces. Subtle. High class."

"Huh, you know that's not a bad idea, Bronn," Sandor said closing the book. Surprised as he was, he had to give it to Bronn, it was a good idea.

"I do know," Bronn added proudly and maybe a little defensively. "Sansa can do it too. I've seen some of her work and her stuff's really nice."

Sandor's eyes squinted as they followed Bronn's excursion past the window. "What do you mean you've 'seen some of her work?' You haven't been to her studio have you?" He tested already knowing the answer.

Bronn stopped his movements suddenly taking a new and involved interest in Sandor's bookshelf that was filled with riveting files and ledgers. Sandor recognized that stupid expression on his friend's face being that it was the same one he made at the Opera when he gayly plucked Margaery Tyrell out of the crowd. Oddly it was also the same expression he made when someone tripped in front of him.

Without an intelligible answer from Bronn, Sandor spoke it for him, "Margaery Tyrell, yeah?" Bronn clucked his tongue noncommittally. "That damn women really does know how to get what she wants. These additional paintings were her idea yeah, not yours?"

"I like to think it was a joint discussion." Bronn returned, sliding a red book in and out of its place on the shelf.

"Sure sure…" The idea of the Tyrell woman meddling made him uneasy. "Stop messing with that."

Bronn abandoned the red book and paced back to Sandor's desk with a more serious look on his face. "Just don't go yelling at her again, man. Sansa seems nice enough but she comes from different stock. This could be good for us." Moving to the door and leaning against the frame he added, "And that smirk you had on your face this afternoon makes me think it could be good for you too. A man would have to be blind not to see the legs-"

"I wasn't smirking!" Sandor smacked his desk rolling his eyes so hard he thought they were going to get stuck in the back of his head.

Bronn was swaying himself back and forth. "-and _Margaery_ tells me she-"

"No. No no no." Sandor stopped him putting his palms to his eyes. "I _do not_ want to hear more of whatever cotton candy that fucking Margaery Tyrell has been filling your head with. Go phone Marcus about getting some wine that grandfather of his in Pennsylvania makes. I want a few of his best bottles sent here to decide if we'll serve it at the bar and insist that we pay for them. Don't go accepting them as a gift no matter what he says."

Bronn closed the door but not before letting out a pathetic sounding meow as he went.

 _Dick._

Sandor remained rooted to the spot, conscious of the fact that he had, in his own way, yelled at Sansa Stark twice now and it made him feel, well, it made him feel like shit. She had appeared so different than himself at the Opera. Painfully beautiful and so obviously having always _belonged_ in this glamorous lifestyle. It angered him to imagine having to sit in front of someone like her being someone like himself.

' _I am sure there are plenty of_ pretty _and_ delicate _things you would rather spend your time looking at'_ he had thrown at her.

As soon as he walked away from Sansa at the Opera, he regretted it. Not before long there was an itching sense that the feeling wouldn't just go away. Walking up the stairs to where they would be seated, Sandor decided it would be worth suffering through a couple portrait sessions just to see her again. He was comfortable being stared at when he was fighting- that was when his strengths were being displayed so people had more exciting things to obsess over than the monstrosity that covered his face. This was different.

Thinking about sitting still and _exposed_ to a woman like Sansa felt like a cruel joke. Sure, he had been with a fair amount of good looking women since "The Hound" had become famous. He was no longer intimidated by them but even so, he was no fool. They were attracted to the fame and power of The Hound, but Sansa Stark, he somehow knew was no ordinary woman. He felt that she was altogether different from the moment he laid his eyes on her. It had been a gut feeling that still pestered him. Why her? What made her so special over than all the others? Why had he immediately become defensive?

Why was he even questioning his feelings?

Frustrated, he shut the ledger a little harder than necessary and went out to watch the boys train before a Stanley Mazur came in to talk about the head chef position. There was a soldier in his company, Benny, who always told stories about an uncle of his who cooked like a professional chef- he only lacked the opportunity to really be one.

Stuck in the trenches somewhere in Germany, the men would be savoring their stale biscuits and cigarettes from leftover K-rations while Benny fabricated stories of his uncle's cooking. Imaginary mouthwatering veal cutlets and pork that would all but melt off the fork somehow made what they were eating taste a little bit better. Stories like this were the ones that Sandor wanted to remember from the War. Memories of his fellow soldiers living and laughing rather than them suffering and dying. When Bronn and he dreamed up the idea of opening a restaurant, Benny's uncle was the first person Sandor thought of. Even though the War had ended, soldiers still looked out for each other. They were family.

Hit with the lively noises of men training, Sandor grinned to see Young Alec step into the ring. The clock only read close to three thirty.

 _So the boy must have ran here._

Young Alec was no more than sixteen and still in highschool. One day he had just showed up to their gym and begged for membership. He had no money but offered his time as payment in desperation. Sandor had barked at him to get lost. With a baby face like his it was obvious that the boy was too young, too naive to enter a ring.

Thing was, the kid came back and asked Sandor everyday no matter how many times Bronn or himself had thrown him out on the street. It wasn't until Alec dragged himself into the gym the ninth time sporting a wicked black eye that Sandor pulled him into his office. The kid's face was stone as he confessed to Sandor why he wanted to be a member so badly. In that moment, Sandor saw himself sitting in that chair. Alec said his father was a good man. People looked up to him as a policeman and as a role model in the community. It was even rumored that he would be on track to become chief of police soon. It was on his father's nights off though, that he sought out the bottle. Drowning himself into stupors, he would push himself into a blind rage and attack Alec's mother only to crawl on his knees to her pleading forgiveness the next morning, pledging it would never happen again.

It always did. It never took long. Sandor knew this story.

So Alec was given a membership and was allowed to come after school to train. No skipping school to hangout here and no real fights for money. Those were the two conditions given. Alec would stay and mop the floors and clean equipment and transport towels to and from the laundromat.

 _Maybe I can find his mother at the restaurant and if business does well enough, I can buy the apartments above it so she can live there with Alec. Offer protection for her. Start over._

Dusk had long since settled on the gym when it's remaining members filtered out leaving only Bronn and Sandor to its welcoming silence. It was their routine that each night no matter if Sandor had trained with his other fighting partners or coaches, the two of them would enter the ring opposite each other. Bronn was nowhere near as big as Sandor, but his cunning and quickness more than made up for it. People always underestimated Bronn but then soon found themselves in trouble. Because of Bronn, Sandor had learned to stay on guard and never fall into a lull after recognizing a man's pattern. Bronn would lure an opponent into a false sense of ease and control before striking with an unconventional and worse, an unpredictable grace.

With most of the lights dimmed, they now danced around each other like familiar, old alley cats who knew each other's moves. Two men who had learned their partner's weaknesses and were not below taking advantage of them. Bronn had been pushing Sandor recently to improve his footwork. He even went so far as to purposely try to trip him in the ring. He said that one day Sandor would fight an opponent who would have more stamina and an abundance of self preservation that would wear him down regardless of how huge Sandor's punches landed. That one day he would face someone who was stronger and younger than him. It was only a matter of time, so Sandor needed to be quicker than his foe would anticipate. He needed to have the upperhand to stay alive in this game until he was ready to leave.

Both men were panting and drenched in sweat by the time they called it quits. The gym had taken on a orangish glow in the evening hour. Sandor cursed as his right leg began to tremble with the exertion. No matter the training or conditioning, the spasms in his leg had become more frequent as the years passed. It was not a weakness of his that he wanted his opponents to become aware of. Not even any of his gym members or mentees knew about it. Only Bronn and a choice few doctors who could be depended on for their discretion were aware that the mighty Hound was suffering from lingering effects of taking a bullet to his thigh during the War.

Another fifteen minutes passed before Sandor rose from his ice bath to allow his usual doctor to administer a massage with ointments and creams. During this time Bronn would shower and run out to pick up dinner for the two of them if they still had extra work to do. Tonight was one of those nights.

They sat together in Bronn's office eating and reviewing their calendar that mapped out social events, press conferences, radio shows, and various meetings for either upcoming boxing matches or for the restaurant. Sandor laughed to himself when Bronn had turned on his radio before they started so he would not miss "The Bing Crosby Show" which was featuring Judy Garland as a guest tonight. More than once, Sandor lobbed an olive at his partner in vain attempts to bring his attention back to their schedule.

"Will you stop that shit? You know how I feel about Judy," said Bronn swatting another olive out the air. His friend had fallen in love with Judy Garland after meeting her once backstage at one of Bing's productions in California. It was right when Sandor's fame had exploded into stardom. Even though Judy was married to Vincente Minnelli at the time, Bronn swore she had flirted with him because she had fixed his tie that had worked its way loose.

"She's quite something tonight- very funny. You know I love a woman who can make me laugh," Bronn said with a chunk of a chicken wing in mouth. "Maybe one of the new chorus girls will be funny tonight at Pete's party- that is if you want to go."

"Why do you keep bringing up Pete's? I thought you had a big night planned with Betty." Sandor asked while gathering their empty containers to dispose of.

Bronn reached across his desk and handed him a cigarette when Sandor returned to slump down in his chair. Bronn let out a snort. "Betty. Yeah that's finished. Fineto. Over."

Sandor lit his cigarette. "Burn too bright too fast again?"

" _She_ sure did. She was a lot of fun," Bronn started to say as Sandor pictured that time Betty ran through a fountain inside a hotel lobby and almost got them all arrested. "-but she started talking about marriage and meeting her parents and moving in with me."

Sandor let out a long exhale of smoke before humoring his friend, "I know I get punched in the head a lot but hasn't it been fuck, what? Three weeks?"

"Two and a half, man."

"Jesus," Sandor laughed out a puff of smoke.

"No sir, I wouldn't even get hitched to Jesus so soon." Bronn picked up a stray olive that had rolled underneath a mock log cabin he built from pens and pencils, thought about tossing it back at Sandor, but set his mind on eating it instead.

"She's not pregnant is she?" Sandor asked.

Bronn almost choked on the olive half speaking half coughing, "No no no no," while waving his hands frantically in front of his face,

"That would be the only explanation for her to start talking about marriage and moving in together with your scrawny ass or she was crazier than looked," Sandor snorted as the two shared an ashtray.

"I am a very eligible bachelor!" Bronn defended.

"Sure you are."

"Shit…" Bronn frowned and scrunched his nose. "Thinking on it, she probably had the impression I have more money than I do, honestly. She always ordered the most expensive dish on the menu... She even tricked me into buying her a fur coat."

Sandor flipped ahead in his book and erased Betty's name from their opening night's guest list he had been compiling. She really had seemed like a swell girl for him at first. He wondered if he should write Sansa's name in the empty slot. "You do play it up a lot, man."

"Can you blame a guy? You have to swing hard to hit a home run."

Should he invite Margaery too? Loras? "You're lousy at Baseball."

"Fuck you" Bronn laughed.

Judy Garland and Bing Crosby started their closing number "Maybe It's Because" while both men sat in silence far away in their own thoughts; Bronn adding onto his cabin, Sandor grabbing another cigarette from the carton on the desk. He watched as the smoke left his mouth and drifted to the ceiling, fading into the artificial light. The taste of it on his mouth mingling with the chicken from dinner. Running the cigarette along his lower lip, Sandor stared at the line where Betty's name once existed but still remained free. Judy was singing about a kiss and falling in love joined by Bing's deep vibrato. It was _slow_ and it was _skin warming_.

' _That maybe it's because the star you wished on_

 _made a certain wish come true._

 _Or if it just could be_

 _that you were meant for me_

 _and maybe I was meant for you.'_

The crowd gave up a thunderous applause and Sandor had an annoying itch that Bronn was looking at him again. He was right. "Dammit, Bronn don't look at me like that. You're freaking me out."

"You had that stupid look on your face again, my friend. You might want to be careful or it'll get stuck like that." Bronn contorted his own to mock him.

"Fuck off."

Bronn's face, usually good humored fell as he examined Sandor. "You sure you don't want to go to Pete's?"

Sandor shook his head wondering why Bronn was so stuck on this. "I am really, really sure I don't want to go to Pete's tonight."

Bronn cursed as he accidentally knocked over his rising stack of pens.

With the lights flicked off and the doors locked, Bronn wished Sandor a good night and reminded him that even though he was being a sore baby about it, they were still meeting at six to continue their endurance training the next day. Sandor watched his friend strut away and around the corner probably headed to a bar before Pete's. How Bronn could keep up with all the partying, Sandor never knew. Maybe people from Pittsburgh were made from different stuff.

Sandor left his car in front of their gym and walked to his townhouse. Buying a place nearby had been essential for Sandor. It ensured that he would be able to maintain a consistent and rigorous training schedule despite the weather. Tonight though, the sky was clear and Sandor wanted to appreciate nights like this before the cold really set in. Above him, the moon lingered amongst the stars in its last quarter not quite waxing yet.

Unlocking the front door, Sandor's bulky keys clattered as he tossed them onto the little table positioned in the entranceway. His place was quiet and only the streetlights illuminated the space through its windows in a gray haze. Switching on the lights, Sandor's living room that lead to a separate kitchen and sitting room came into view. To his right was a dark staircase to the second floor which held his bedroom and adjoined bathroom, a spare room and another half bath. Growing up during the Great Depression, Sandor had a hard time transitioning into his new lifestyle though it was still far from extravagant.

A part of him resented the money he was now making when he thought back on how his family was starving and how he had to lie about his age to get work down at the docks- not that he was too small for the work. Most days he would get picked, but not all. Every morning before dawn, Sandor would cook a meager breakfast so that his sister had something in her belly until their father returned around noon from the shift he would pick up if they were lucky. If they were not lucky, his father would go to the shacks in Hooverville and drink through the night and early morning and then sleep away the afternoon passed out somewhere. His brother had fucked off by then leaving just the three of them. His mother too had left them one night.

Life had not been so bad before the stock market had crashed and sent everything to hell. Sandor's parents had owned a successful dog breeding business right outside the city. Enough money was earned to hire private tutors for the children to nourish promising educations so that they could rise to social standings above their parents'. Even though they had the wealth, the Cleganes did not have the reputation that could compete with old money.

The dogs though, they never failed to earn praise. Irish Wolfhounds were their most prestigious breed meant for wealthier customers who would purchase nothing less than the most well tempered beasts. Sandor had wept when their situation had become too dire to let the dogs live let alone keep the business going. It was something that he had to push hard to the back of his mind when the face of his favorite hound still to this day slunk unbidden into his brain.

How his brother had laughed and beat Sandor's dog before he had done what he was told to do by their father never left him. She was an unsellable runt but she was his to love. Sandor failed to protect her. For days after he refused to eat their new meat. He could still hear her yelps and cries growing more pained and desperate until after what felt like an eternity, she had stilled to a quiet void. But to his human weakness, the hunger had screamed too loudly to protest any longer, so he ate. Sandor had not owned a dog since.

 _Maybe now though, maybe I could get a puppy. A big one who would greet me when I came home and scare the shit out of Bronn at the gym._

Sandor's mind flashed to the various bottles of gin and whiskey on his bar but he reached for the book on his side table instead. That particular diluted nothingness was not the distracting release he craved this night. It had not been for some time anyways. Falling into the pages of Shelley had a stronger siren call towards a different oblivion for his monsters to drown in.

The comforting weight of the hardcover book in his hands brought his mind once again to red curls and the ghost of tender fingertips that ran through his hair and across his chest to ready him for painting. He could not stop the way his breath had hitched when she had done it again today and it remained a tingling torture that even at this hour, he could not shake. Thinking of her felt like the low reverberations of a deep string instrument being plucked. Somehow she was ebbing her way into him. For now, he was content with letting it be; allowed it to consume him when the nights were dark and growing colder each day. He'd hold it close while he could.

Memories of the Opera were beginning to become so ingrained in his brain from continuous replays that they might as well be written.

Sandor was never too keen about making personal appearances let alone going to big charity events where everyone stared at him. But nevertheless, The Hound had to show his sorry face if they wanted to keep their endorsement deals. ' _Rolex is only watch The Hound will put on his wrist'_ and ' _Cadillac Series 62, the car for the American man. You won't see The Hound pull up for a match in anything else.'_

He knew his boxing career wouldn't last forever so he had to take the money when it came and be smart about it. That's how he ended up at the charity event being held at the Opera. Angry because he had so many arrangements to look over to make sure the restaurant stayed on track and bored out of his mind because deep down he did not care about these sorts of people. He would never belong with them. He had two drinks as soon as they arrived but figured it was not the place to get drunk at unless he wanted an entirely different narrative in the paper.

Then Bronn spotted Margaery Tyrell from across the long, overstuffed room, but it was not Margaery Tyrell that held Sandor's attention or made his heart hammer in his chest. It was the woman next to her. He had never seen her before in this life but gods, she looked like an angel with skin as luminescent as the Moon and hair that could inspire the heat of the Sun. Like a creature from a fairytale who belonged on a throne among higher beings far above mere mortal men. None of Sandor's usual silent protests came when Bronn said he wanted to go speak with the Tyrell woman. So they went.

With a hefty sigh, Sandor lowered himself onto his large reading chair and pulled the lamp chain so he had enough light to read under. His front room wasn't particularly spacious enough for hosting great parties but it did house a few framed photographs from California, a tall window that let in ample light, a large fireplace, and a bookshelf that ran along the length of one side of the room. There was a lonely solitude to the space that.

Having finished _The Hobbit_ a few weeks ago, Sandor had moved on to a book by Mary Shelley. The torment of Frankenstein dragged itself through the pages chased by the ever present evidence of the monster that haunted and hunted him. This was a monster that Frankenstien's own hands brought into this world. Their shared sorrow and regret were emotions that Sandor could relate to. Sandor had not created his brother nor had he created war, but that did not lessen their powers.

Sandor woke with a start still positioned in his chair under the light of his lamp. The siren of a firetruck had been blaring down his street. He had slipped into a dream of her again. It had been a drifting dream but he could still see the flash of red that had flown around a corner from him. He had been chasing her and she had been laughing for him. The laugh he had come to realize over a mere three meetings that he would do anything for. They were in the school library from his childhood. A place where Sandor had found an unexpected escape and happiness.

Most nights, his dreams were damned with visions of fire and blood. The screaming and cries of friends who had died in his arm showed themselves without mercy. Those he could not protect or those he had saved- it made no difference. Some nights his head thrummed so hard it felt as though it would explode. If it would, at least then he would find a release. Other nights he would wake to find himself holed up in his bathroom protecting his pillow and crouching in the tub as if he was holding onto one of his brothers-in-arms while bombs rained down all around them.

Waking up to his own screams, tears, and the shakes had become a normality in his life. Did he really come home? It had not even been a home when he left so how could he? Sandor had started over again when he landed back in America but the nightmares and endless thoughts of the atrocities he committed to stay alive and worse, those he did not, remained and stalked him endlessly. If he drank into the ease of numbness, sometimes he could fend off the dreams. Sometimes it only made it worse.

Running his hand against the stubble on his face, Sandor let free a groan, turned off the lamp, and closed the book that had been resting with him. Trudging into the kitchen and filling a glass with water, Sandor drank deeply to soothe the dryness that had scratched his throat. Moving to the bathroom and with intent to brush his teeth, he could not stop himself from looking at his reflection in the mirror. Still he saw the same ugly face. Already stubble was growing in. With an almost serious demeanor, Sansa had instructed him to be clean shaven for their portrait sessions as to maintain a consistency with his appearance. He smiled to imagine her pointing at him with her scolding paintbrush if he were to come with a full beard. That is until his eyes focused on his own face. He frowned once more.

The scars had ruined any possibility that Sandor would be viewed as a handsome man. Mean and gnarled, his scars were a constant reminder of the realities of his hardships and a horrendous childhood. They branded him into a monster.

If he ever had a child, would it too fear him like most people did? Could it love him? Or was he doomed like Frankenstein's monster to only inspire horror in the eyes of both the innocent and the damned? Making quick work of brushing his teeth, Sandor turned off the lights and crawled into bed hoping to return to that library.


	5. Chapter 5:Will the Circle Be Unbroken

A knock rapped on the door ripping her from Elizabeth Bennet's side as they walked in the green gardens of Pemberley. Back to reality, Sansa checked in with the clock on the table next to her and as she suspected, it was nearing three-thirty in the afternoon.

 _It is still too early for Sandor. Did Margaery leave something behind?_ She thought closing her book.

Having risen to see who was calling on her, Sansa did a quick once over of herself in the mirror mounted on her coat closet door. She was dressed in a plain but well made knee length skirt and a button up blouse having hosted Margarey for lunch and tea. There was still enough left of the afternoon before she would change into her painting garb.

Opening the door, Sansa came face to face with a man she was sure she had never seen before. Neither handsome nor ugly, he was simply plain looking with average brown combed-over hair, dark coffee colored eyes, and a strained smiled that displayed good teeth. This was the type of man one would see walking down the street but never remember. He was of stocky build, in height with Sansa, and was looking at her as if he had known her since they were children or as though he had seen her before at least.

This was odd. Sansa never forgot a face.

"Good afternoon," Sansa spoke not letting her manners slip despite the shock of him standing in her doorway so unannounced.

"Good afternoon to you as well- Miss Stark?" the man questioned.

Sansa could not prevent the confusion that blossomed on her face. "Why yes, I am she..."

The man wrung his cap within his grasp as he looked down at his freshly polished shoes. Sansa could hear his shaky breathing betraying him. To her eyes he spoke, "Miss Stark, I apologize for my intrusion. I hope I am not greatly interrupting your day. Normally, I do not make it into the city, but I was here visiting my sister, Gabriella and her husband. My sister was showing us her new portrait of their son, Jonny and my wife was so transfixed that she begged for the name of the artist. That artist is, as you are aware, is you, Miss Stark. I saw your name on the business card my sister had saved and needed to confirm your identity for myself. See um-," the man frowned as he fumbled over the words spilling from his mouth. "My reason for coming here, I was close with- I mean, I was with your brother Robb when... Robb and I were friends. We served in the same company." The stranger choked these last few words with tears threatening to spill over onto his contorted face.

It felt as though ice water had been poured over Sansa so harshly that she could not gather air into her lungs. Her limbs turned wobbly like a newborn fawn as she gripped the doorknob hard.

 _Oh Robb…_

It had been years since she last saw him, but not a day passed when she did not think of him. Thinly she asked, "You were with Robb? Robb Stark?"

"Yes, Miss," he uttered, still working the hat in his hands. He could no longer look at Sansa.

"Please, please will you come in?" Sansa urged as she moved aside to permit him into her home. She felt as if she were in a dream. The edges were all blurry and her heart was pounding almost painfully in her chest. But her heart could have stopped and she would not have noticed. Sansa could barely focus on closing the door after him. A blanket of numbness carried her feet forward into her living room.

Robb, her Robb.

The man sat down on Sansa's cream couch, just as pale as Sansa felt and gripped his knees with white knuckles.

"Sir, I apologize. I have forgotten to ask your name..." Sansa said pulling a blanket to her chest and was positioned opposite him in the cushioned chair she had been occupying moments before. The afternoon had been a pleasant one with ample sunlight warming her. Now her usually bright apartment felt cold and gray almost as if a demon had sucked out all the color.

He offered her a sad smile and said, "Scott Davis, Miss Stark." An ordinary name for an ordinary looking man. How was he lucky enough to come home and her Robb was not?

"Please Scott, any friend of Robb's may call me Sansa," she said politely.

"Yes…" he said seeming to wish to say more but deciding against it.

They sat there sizing each other up both knowing the ending to this conversation. The kettle that Sansa had set to boil earlier screamed from the kitchen making them both flinch.

Rising to make herself a cup of tea, Sansa inquireded, "Would you care for some tea, Scott? Or perhaps some water? I have a pie in the fridge-"

"No, no thank you." She heard him say with her back turned from him. Her hands shook as she struggled to pour the steaming water without missing the cup. _Maybe I should not have invited him inside. What if he is unwell? Why will he not begin?_

Returning to her seat, she found that Scott was finally ready to talk. "You and Robb have the same eyes, you know. He carried a photograph of your family with him in his pocket. That's how I knew it was you when my sister named a Stark and described you- though you have grown up since then. I swear everyone in our company saw that picture at least once. Myself more often. Robb was always so fond of all of you."

 _Yes, all of use grew up quick after that._

She had a copy of the same image framed and placed in her studio and knew it well. Sometimes Sansa feared that if she failed to look at it everyday, what was captured would vanish. The photograph was small in size, but housed them all. Dressed in their finest clothing, Catelyn Stark had insisted that they have family portraits taken each year. The boys were garbed in suits even though little Rickon did his best to ruin his tie each time mother was not looking and moaned complaints when she was. Sansa would have sworn that this year would be the time Arya would finally strip and dash around naked as revenge for being forced into such a lacy dress. Bran always performed his best to mimic his older brother and remain composed throughout the affair.

Her and Robb had loved the tradition unlike their siblings. Pretending to be a lord and lady, they performed their imagined roles the entire day leading up to the event. ' _Lady Stark, you look absolutely divine in your gown.'_ Robb would announce. ' _Why, my kind Lord Stark, how gallant of you to say!'_ she would reply. It was always good fun.

The tradition had died with Robb. There were no more family portraits taken since.

"Yes that was my idea, that he pack a photograph with him. I hoped it would help remind him to… remind him to come home to us." Sansa reached for her tea cup on the table next to her but her hands knocked it over spilling its contents over onto the carpet.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._

"Sansa if me being here is too painful-" Scott started.

"No! No I am sorry. Please stay." Her betraying hands moved under the blanket uncaring about the mess she just made or how the hot tea had burned her. "I want to know everything you can tell me. My mother had not allowed us to speak with any of the soldiers who came to us or hear many details. I want to be able to honor Robb in my memory more completely and properly. He deserves that from me at least."

"Okay," Scott said with a determined nod of his head. She could tell he was trying his best to be strong for the both of them.

"Was he good at what you did?" she asked. "Robb and my father would go hunting, so I had seen him with a gun before. I _never_ could picture him jumping out of planes though." Sansa remembered Robb had been an excellent shot for his age. When the men of the house would venture out and return with a few bucks it would feed them for a good part of the winter.

"He was one of the best. I knew from the first day of training that he was one of those types who could succeed at anything he set his mind to. A true natural. It's one of the reasons I was determined to be friends with him. I wanted to be more like him." Scott was smiling the way people do when speaking of someone they love. Even if they are gone, the happiness they imprint on a soul never truly leaves. He continued, "If it was not for Robb, I think a few of us would never have completed training. Young Wolf was what we called him."

"Young Wolf... Yes, I bet he quite liked that." Sansa could almost see the grin he must have pulled the first time someone called him that. They used to pretend that his husky, Grey Wind was really a wolf when they were children.

"He was the fiercest of us. Never hiding from his fear, he faced it head on. It almost became a running joke the way he was always volunteering to jump first knowing the rest of us would follow. 'Don't jump off that table, Robb or I'll have to climb up and jump after you!' we would say." Scott laughed but his face grew serious again after the small moment. "...I'm sure you know this Sansa, but there was just something about him that made you want to go where he went. People noticed that. He rose quickly and yet he still felt like one of us."

Sansa could not stop herself from feeling a sharp pang of jealousy as Scott spoke. This man in front of her had the privilege of knowing her brother in a way she never had the chance to, as the man she always knew he would be. It was cruel to have had that taken away from her.

Continuing, Scott said, "I had never seen someone so brave and so sure that he had a purpose in that war. He was our protector. We knew Robb was younger than most of us despite his constant swearing that he was eighteen. It didn't matter. When our lieutenant fell in France, Robb was the first one we all turned to and it wasn't because of his rank. We trusted him to get us out alive and if not, we would have happily died alongside him. He saved my life multiple times. On D-day I had lost my helmet in the jump. He gave me his own until we came across another. If not for that helmet I would have ended up like our lieutenant. When Willy was shot by a sniper, Robb was the one who ran out under fire to bring him back under cover. Saved his life too. We were all convinced that God had blessed him after that day. Bullets, shrapnel, grenades- it made no difference. _Nothing hit him_. It was as if He had a greater purpose for Robb. We all believed it… would have sworn..." Scott trailed off.

"How?" she whispered knowing what Scott was thinking- where his story was leading to.

"Sansa I don't think-"

"How Scott? I need to know how my brother died. That is why you came here, did you not? All we were told in that horrible letter was that Robb Stark, my brother, died a hero. Died for the greater cause of the War. But I know, _I know_ Scott, that is not always how it was. Not everyone died a hero. People. Just. Died." Sansa spoke the words but to her, they sounded far off as though she was in another room listening in.

"No Sansa. Everyone who died over there were the heros. Us who came home? We are indebted to them." Words flowed coated in thick bitterness as he spoke. "Robb died for the same reason he fought. He was _protecting us._ We were ordered to hold the position in this town but the Germans knew exactly where we were." He shook his head. "They knew. They knew. They knew. We were supposed to be the outer protection for the neighbouring town that the main roads ran through. No one should have bothered us but we were wrong and we were outnumbered so much so that the information we were briefed on was laughable. It wasn't fucking supposed to be like that.

There was an old library we tried to take cover in but we knew it was useless. Three of our men had already been taken out and we were separated into groups of ten. Our sniper was one of the men killed but Robb had picked up his rifle. He ordered us to go out the back door and meet up with the other company at the next town to warn them a fresh group had come in to try to take it back in a last ditch effort. We would run while Robb stayed to hold them off and distract them. He said it was "his job."

Up on the roof he went and made so much chaos for the Germans I think they thought there were six of him. We could hear him firing off shots and throwing everything he had at them. If it weren't for your brother covering our escape, all nine of us would have died before even making it across the street. They would have taken that other town and possibly turned the tide of the war.

We thought they were just footsoldiers. Sansa, I swear to God if we knew they had a tank we would have dragged Robb with us even if he went kicking and screaming. We would not have let him stay there.

We made it up to a small hill above the town and could see him up there on the roof taking cover from some machine gun fire. But it came around a corner," he choked out, voice stained with grief. "We tried to yell for him to get out. Tried to tell him to run… but the tank fired a shot blowing up the whole top floor and Robb with it-" Scott was weeping and looked to be in so much pain that Sansa rose without a thought and went to him. She held his hand as he managed through gritted teeth, "We went back. We went back a few days later searching for him. There was a small hope amongst us that he had survived. He was the Young Wolf for Christ's sake. He was supposed to make it." His tears fell onto Sansa's hands. The wetness rolled between the crevices of their interlocked fingers. He continued in a small, far away voice, "Nothing was left of the library but rubble. We couldn't even find his tags."

Sansa sat there while this grown man cried mourning his friend and found it queer that she could not summon her own tears. She felt nothing. For so long she had tried to imagine the many ways her brother could have died. Death after death, night after night. Now finally hearing the story she felt nothing but an empty hole inside her chest that could not be filled by this.

After some time Sansa said softly, "Tell me something happy about him, Scott. Tell me about the good. There must have been something good."

"Yes, yes there was good." He gathered himself to say. "When we were liberating the camps, Robb always gave the Jews his extra food. Unlike all of us, your brother never smoked. He went around trading all of his cigarettes that came in the ration packs for candy bars. It lightened all of our hearts witnessing the selfless compassion he showed. Robb spoke with the Jews and prayed with them. He even cried with them." Though Scott appeared to have recovered from his overwhelming grief, his tone remained solemn.

"He used to sing... Oh those were such nights. We would all get drunk off one flask and he would break out in song. It was always "Will the Circle Be Unbroken."" Another tear slid down Scott's face as he closed his eyes and gave a small laugh like Robb was sitting right next to him. He began to sing proudly in his friend's honor.

' _One by one their seats were emptied._

 _One by one they went away._

 _Now the family is parted._

 _Will it be complete one day_ '

Scott's voice was plain but pleasant. Sansa knew the words. It was a song that their mother sang slowly to them when they were children to make the night feel less dark. Her voice matched his as they carried the final lines together, so obviously branded by their shared love and loss.

' _Will the circle be unbroken_

 _By and by, by and by?_

 _Is a better home awaiting_

 _In the sky, in the sky?_ '

When they finished, Scott said, Such a beautiful voice, sang like an angel he did."

Sansa squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Scott."

He looked her in the eye with a determination she had not yet seen from him, "Your brother was a great man Sansa. He saved a lot of us. He was a hero and he deserved to come home. I wish he had. Dammit, I wish he had."

They spoke for about a quarter of an hour more about the nothings of life. His job, his family, what he was planning for their future. A future that Robb had helped give him and one that Robb never had.

Scott had left her couch and put his jacket back on. Sansa wished him happiness and peace with his family. He had promised to call on her the next time he was in the city and to take her to dinner with his wife.

As soon as the door clicked shut Sansa's feet carried her as fast as they could. It took all of her self control to reach the toilet before she released the bile that clawed and swam up her throat. _He is dead because of you. It was all your fault._ A voice screamed inside her aching head causing her to retch once more. The cruel voice that followed her from her youth was relentless. _Robb never came home. Mother never had the chance to pray over his body. He has two graves but they are both empty._ She retched once more though nothing came out this time.

Sansa slumped from the toilet once she was sure no more vomit was going to rise. Time ticked past as she lay with her face caressing the cold, wet floor. She was freezing and hot all at once. Like she had been running but someone had poured a bucket of ice on her and commanded her to continue despite her desperate exhaustion. She wished she could hug her siblings but they were all so far away.

A relief came when she stopped shaking. Her breathing slowed and regulated. On her hands and knees, Sansa crawled from the tile of her bathroom to the carpet of her bedroom not feeling the burns that were rubbing onto her skin.

Her dresser. Reaching up, Sansa groped for the gold frame that was displayed there. Clutching it to her chest Sansa wept. There within rested Robb sitting with Grey Wind on their family's front porch.

 _He was so handsome._

Robb was fifteen here. Though he looked like a man grown, Sansa could still recognize the charms of boyhood. A confident smirk on a face that could not yet grow a beard. Eyes that were quick to laugh and deserved to. Tears adorned the glass as she gazed longingly at the brother she had loved.

 _You promised me, damnit. You promised me if I helped you that you would_ come home _._

Sansa could still remember so vividly the afternoon the letter came. Reports had been of good news as of late. The war was turning in their favor and Hitler was failing. People began to shine with a new light in their eyes. Hope. It was unmistakable. They had dreamed that the letters would stop soon.

That morning years ago, her and Arya had another monstrous fight over something she could not now remember. Sansa had been furious. Out in the garden she hid beneath her favorite tree whose limbs grew low and kindly. She was pulling out pieces of grass and thinking about how very much she would like to not have a sister anymore. That was when a scream from the house interrupted her like none she ever heard before. It was guttural and nothing had scared Sansa more in her life. Sprinting as fast as she could, she hurried to the house with a blank mind. She found her mother crumpled on the floor holding Arya tight in a tangled embrace.

Without a word from her mother, Sansa knew what the letter pressed against her chest meant. She had seen one delivered before to the Umber's house during an afternoon visit. She heard the women talk despite them trying to hide it from the children. This was a letter of death. The question of whose death felt like a double edged blade held to her heart. Had she lost a father or a brother?

As she sat on her own bedroom floor, Sansa heard feet shuffle nearby.

"Sansa?" Sandor was occupying her entire door frame with fear on his face. It was almost painful to see. She quickly turned her eyes back to the floor ashamed. Sansa did not even hear the front door shut that would have announced his arrival. "Sansa what happened, are you alright?" His voice sounded gruff like he had just seen a ghost but also oddly demanding.

With tear tracks and running mascara on her ruined face, Sansa raised her head, sure she looked a crumpled mess of a woman. Her skirt was wrinkled and her hair was wrecked. Sandor seemed peculiar standing there illuminated in the early evening light filtering in through her bedroom curtains. Like a monster who had only been misunderstood his entire life. How could such a hard man look so soft in this light? Though she was the one pooled on the floor she thought he was the one who felt vulnerable and afraid.

With careful feet he dropped to his knees beside her. This only cued new sobs to choke from her throat as she reached out and pushed her face into his broad chest. She felt Sandor's large arms wrap around her and strong hands hesitantly run threw her hair. Hands that reminded her of her father.

Whispering comforting nothings to her, Sandor adjusted to a sitting position and began to rock her back and forth in an effort to calm her down as the haziness of grief overtook her. He was so warm. It was like being cocooned. She was lost.

When Sansa stopped crying and the shaking had left, Sandor spoke, "Sansa you have to tell me what happened. Has someone hurt you? Why was your door unlocked?" She could feel the rumbling vibrations of his deep voice coming from his chest. His voice was soft as not to scare her. He smelled like soap and musk and his sweater was softer than any pillow Sansa had ever laid her head on. A hand rubbed her back. "You have to tell me what happened or I can't help you. I'm here. I'm here."

He leaned them back against her dresser and continued to rub her back. Sansa held her eyes closed tight and forced herself to breathe along with the rise and fall of his chest and stomach. _I am here. I am in my apartment. The past is gone and I cannot change it. What is done is done._

 _What is done is done._

 _What is done is done._

By now there was less lingering sunlight joining them in her room. The faint luminescent noise from street lights began to make their presence known. Sansa breathed long and firmly.

"Are you ready?" Sandor asked.

"Yes," she answered only enough of a whisper to be heard.

"I'm here."

Rubbing her right fingertip smally back and forth against his sweater she began, "A man was here who knew my brother Robb during the war. He came to speak with me about him. How he had grown into a fine man and a fine leader. It brought it all back I think. He died in the war and it is all my fault."

Sandor found her left hand with his and took it. "I'm so sorry Sansa. It's no ones fault that-"

"No, but you do not understand," she heard herself half laugh, half sob as she opened her eyes. "Robb was only sixteen when he enlisted. He lied about his age to go fight and I helped him do it. I encouraged him. I told him it was so brave and valiant."

Sandor's hand tightened around hers as new tears streamed down their predestined path. Voice cracking Sansa continued, "I- I lied to Mother. I helped come up with the lie that Robb was leaving to go to a month long science program that would help him get into a special collage. Robb was so smart that mother did not even question it. She thought it was- it was wonderful. A great opportunity. Then after that month concluded, Robb sent a letter home instead of coming home himself explaining that he was training with a paratrooper unit. He had made it beyond some of the more difficult tests and was on track to become a junior officer. Mother was furious and scared but she was also proud. My father was a Major in the Army and was so in the thick of things that there was nothing he could do to stop Robb even if he had wanted to. He was fiercely proud of him in his own way though.

"I think, I think my mother knew in her soul though that something was going to happen. One day she started praying more that was typical of her. When she came home from her volunteer work she would light a candle and pray for hours and hours. It was like she was under a trance. All she could do was mutter, "He cannot die. Keep him safe Mother. He must not die." I had to take on full responsibility for my siblings it grew so dire. Then that letter came and confirmed her fears… Robb was, Robb was killed in action. We would not be getting a body back. Mother went into shock for some long weeks after that letter.

Us kids were not given the details on what had happened. A few times men had tried to come to the house to talk to her about Robb but she had turned them away each time. She did not want to hear from those who ' _let Robb die for them'_ anymore. This man came today and told me everything. It was horrible but I feel boundless pride. Robb was a hero, but if I had not lied for him-"

Sandor used his free hand to grip Sansa's chin. Not ungently he lifted her face from his tear soaked shirt so he could look her in the eyes. "You have to know it's not your fault, Sansa. He would have found a way to go-" Letting go of her hand, Sandor used both of his thumbs to wipe away the tear tracks that were threatening to etch permanently onto her face. "It was all shit over there. So much fucking senseless death that meant nothing… But we did what we had to do." He was still holding her face.

To the right of Sandor's leg laid the photograph of Robb. Sansa suddenly realized how close they were together still. Feeling embarrassed, she moved aside to lean against her dresser next to him and picked up the photograph.

"This him?" Sandor asked taking it from her as Sansa nodded her head. His brow furrowed and he closed his eyes. "Of fucking course. I met your brother in Bastogne. We were at the same camp. Kid was walking around trading cigarettes for candy bars. I stopped him and gave him what I could after talking with him. I had just come from where the battle was happening and he was to go tomorrow. He asked after my men and talked about his own like they were family. Even after all this time I haven't forgotten that conversation. He was just a kid... There was just something about him a man can't forget. I would have thought he'd made it out."

"He was blown up in a library." she said.

"Shit."

"Shit," she repeated.

For some time they just sat on her carpet and watched as the light drained from the room. What was there to say anymore?

Sandor stood up and put a hand out for Sansa. Grasping his hand she was pulled up and thanked him.

"What do you say we go out tonight? Get your mind off it all, eh?" he asked.

"Go out?" Sansa fingered her hair in an attempt to fix the nest she was sure it had turned into.

"Yeah. Can we afford it timewise with the portrait?" Sandor was looking around the room until he found the switch he was searching for.

They both winced and laughed as the light brightened the room. Laughter would have felt foreign to her so soon after tears if it had been anyone else but him. Tonight he had his hair pulled back and was smartly dressed in a plain black sweater over a dress shirt and khaki slacks. She watched as he looked around her room.

 _The Hound is in my bedroom._

"I think so. Would you um, mind if I put myself together?" Sansa had made more progress than she thought she would have at this point. They could both use a night off.

Sandor offered her what might be considered a small smile and said, "Take as much time as you need, Red," and disappeared out into her living room.

Checking the damage that a good cry always inflicts, Sansa was glad to see that her hair was not as bad as she feared and that Sandor must have wiped away most of the mascara that had run from her lashes. Her skirt was wrinkled though and would need changing. Stripping from her clothes, and acutely aware that there was only a wall between her nearly naked self and Sandor, she dashed to her bathroom to wash the grief from her face. Wrapped in her negligee she riffled through her closet and pulled a modest plum dress with a white collar. She laid it out on her bed and sat at her vanity to put a new face on.

' _Let's go out.' What is he planning? Does he expect me to get all dressed up?_

She had no answer to these questions but as she looked at herself in the mirror she blushed a deep red realizing that she _wanted_ to look beautiful for him. Was it shameful that she had transitioned from mourning her brother to fighting butterflies in her stomach? After that moment in the hallway when Sandor confessed why he agreed to the portrait, she had put in extra effort for their next meeting. A tighter blouse had been chosen, lipstick applied, and she forwent her typical braid she typically wore for soft waves instead. Sansa knew it was subtle but it made all the difference in her mind. She liked the way he looked at her.

Not wanting to keep him waiting, she applied skilled winged lines to her eyes, powdered her face, swiped a few extra passes of mascara, and added a light blush. As she eyed her lipstick options, her hand hovered over the deep red from the Opera but went with the subtle pink she had worn for their last painting session instead. Her hair only needed a little love from her brush to be sorted back to agreeable waves. Moving to her bed she dropped the negligee and hurried into the dress and stepped in front of her mirror.

 _No, no this will not do. Sansa Stark, you look like an old maid in this dress._ Stripped, she went back to her sift through her other options.

Sansa considered his attire. The Hound had been pristinely dressed at the Opera but both times Sandor had come to her apartment he had been modest in his clothing. Casual. _He would look good in anything really. Broad shoulders. Strong chest. Taller than any man has the right to be._ She shook her head for daydreaming and remembered that the real thing was out there waiting for her. From her closet Sansa pulled a fresh, fitted blue skirt that accentuated her waistline and a tawny turtleneck that she knew would hug her breasts. _Yes this will do_ she thought to herself in the mirror. Then her stomach rumbled as an angry reminder that it had been hours since she last ate.

Turning off her bedroom light, Sansa carried her walking heels out into the living room where she assumed he would be waiting, though she would not have been surprised if he had wandered off into her studio. She was correct for he sat with his legs spread out on her couch with _Pride and Prejudice_ in his hands. Sandor had poured himself a fresh glass of water as though he lived there.

In front of him again, her heart pounded as a new wave of shyness enveloped her. Butterflies traveled from deep in her belly to her throat. Sandor had seen a side of her she usually kept locked away. A private, secret self. She barely knew him, but in the moment she had not thought about how vulnerable the situation was or how if it were anyone else, she would have regained her composure and hidden back inside herself immediately. Why had she not done so with him?

She grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter. "I thought you did not enjoy love stories," Sansa prodded trying to keep her voice steady.

Closing the book, Sandor looked mildly embarrassed. _Is he blushing?_ She noticed how carefully he placed the novel back on the table.

His embarrassment did not last long. "So you admit it's a love story?" Sandor quipped as he stood to look down at her sliding on her shoes and rising a few inches.

She flashed a glance at him and said, "Only if you admit you were enjoying it."

"Maybe I'll ask to borrow it one day, but not today," he laughed.

Donning their coats, they left Sansa's apartment and made their way to the elevator. As they walked Sansa was hyper aware of passing Green Bean's door where Sandor had practically cornered her not too long ago. She wondered if he thought of it too.

Pressing the button at the elevator, it only took a moment for the doors to open and for them to step in. The elevator never felt small until the door closed leaving just the two of them in the cramped space.

Sandor asked, "Do you want to go to my restaurant, or I mean, what will be my restaurant? We had some wine delivered that I could use an opinion on and I have leftover dishes in the fridge from a tasting we did the other day. Is that okay?"

"Yes, that sounds wonderful, Sandor." She did not think being surrounded by a crowd of people in a stuffy restaurant would do her any good.

The lobby was crowded with a moving crew and an absurd amount of boxes. A man who looked like he was in charge of the other men was arguing with a middle aged couple. Navigating around them Sandor led the way outside and almost ran right into Tom after turning to make sure Sansa was still behind him. Tom was walking in with one of the moving boxes and seemed too frazzled to talk.

Sandor's keys jingled in his hands as he fished them out of his pocket. Hearing this Sansa said, "I believe fresh air is exactly what I need at the moment. Would it be too much of a bother to walk?"

"It's only a couple blocks away from your place actually," Sandor said returning the keys to his pocket and lead them around the corner.

It felt nice, walking in step with him. Sansa decided that he had a good walk. It was not too much of a strut, but it was purposeful like Sandor always knew where he was going. His strides were long and powerful but she could tell he was slowing down slightly for her. The city had a bright glow to it as the sun began its descent. Shops were still open and children who must have stayed late for after school activities were still making their way home.

Sandor's restaurant to be was next to a hotel and was two stories high with apartments taking residence above it. The windows were new but boarded up from the inside to deter thieves from breaking in. She noticed there was no sign or letters painted on the windows yet that gave the place a name. He brought his keys out again and unlocked the door letting Sansa in before him. Stepping in the darkness, Sansa could smell fresh paint and polished flooring.

It was darker inside than it ought to be due to the covered windows. Sandor closed the door behind him and moved to behind the what looked like bar. With the lights turned on, Sansa could see that the place was coming along nicely. The wooden floor was freshly waxed and new round tables littered the open space though there was a clear lack of chairs. The walls were painted a muted cherry red. It felt open like a place someone could come no matter the occasion. Nothing too extravagant needed to be done because the architecture of the building was already so classic and particular.

"So this is it," Sandor said with a shrug of his shoulders that tried to display an air of indifference. She knew it was a ruse. Of course he was nervous showing her something like this and she did not miss the small smile that played on lips when she said, "I think this will be quite nice when it all comes together, Sandor."

She moved to join him at the bar and he ducked down beneath only to reappear with a crate of wine and two glasses. "I better wash these," he mumbled to himself and left through a doorway to the right of the bar.

He came back with the glasses and a few containers of duck salad, fresh bread, and potatoes.

They both attacked their food in an agreed upon silence. Whoever he had hired as a cook knew what they were doing. The food was simple but divine. The wine was some of the best she had ever had in New York. Whenever she looked up she found Sandor staring off into parts of his restaurant as though he was going through a mental list of what needed to be done. Soon he began voicing these thoughts. He wanted to buy a simple chandelier to put in the middle of the room. A desk for his office still needed to be picked up. The chairs him and Bronn picked out from a friend of theirs who was a carpenter were going to be delivered tomorrow. He asked her what color tablecloths she thought would look nice. What paintings would look best where. They went on like this until Sansa finished a second-but still hurried helping of the salad.

"Sandor?" she asked him after piling her dishes on top of each other.

He was staring off again. "Hmm?"

She found herself nervous again. "Do you want to go with me to one of my favorite spots? I- I do not wish to go home right now."

With a smile that reassured her and said, "Where to?"

They arrived at a tall apartment building a block away. Sansa buzzed the intercom and a loud voice questioned, "Who is it?"

"I have a friend with me Ronald. May we come up?" to which a buzzer rang and the door promptly unlocked itself.

The room was rather large for a studio apartment with an assortment of mismatched area rugs haphazardly covering the wooden floor. The kitchen was freshly renovated though Sansa knew that her friend rarely bothered to cook. An army of paintings and sketches were hung and pinned to the walls floor to ceiling. Some were even slightly overlapping one another and others threatened to conceal past works all together. A lot of Ronald's more serious pieces sold rather quickly but he had a wonderful habit of holding onto ones he found too precious to sell.

Half empty glasses of water varying in colors and sizes were forgotten on the floor. Next to the magazine covered couch was a discarded bottle of wine and another lay under a coffee table. Gifts that came in the form of oriental fans, obscure glassware, small stone and wooden figures, and postcards were clustered on any surface they could fit. Hanging from the ceiling, which must have been a new gift Ronald received since Sansa's last visit, was a model hot air balloon with a yellow and red striped balloon and a small basket. Trinkets that seemed to move on their own welcomed them as the door closed behind.

If one was not prepared to see such an overly crowded mass of things, one was sure to be overwhelmed. Sansa only needed to look at Sandor's face to know that he was feeling just that by the way his eyes were racing across the space without the luxury of focusing on one oddity at a time.

"Sansa my love, my sweetling, you look lovely as usual!" declared a singing Ronald as he crossed the room to kiss her hand. Sansa smiled and delicately rolled up his fallen shirt sleeve on the hand he extended to her. The man was tall and thin with sun-streaked hair and an easy smile. His voice always sounded as though he was seeing a person precious to him after years of separation.

"And who have you brought to my tower?" Ronald said looking Sandor up and down with a sly, suggestive smile on his face.

"Sandor Clegane," Sandor said extended his free hand to their host who shook it. The other held a bag containing a few bottles of wine and candles he took from the restaurant as a gift to Sansa.

Ending his shake with Sandor, the artist turned to Sansa and said, "Dear I can see why you wanted to paint him, he has the most intriguing sad eyes-"

"Ronald!," Sansa squeaked and pushed the man lightly on the shoulder.

Spinning away from her with a jolly laugh, Ronald, impressively minding the glasses strewn about on the floor, glided like a graceful doe to the phone that rang across the room.

"Oh I am sorry." Sansa said with a giggle looking at Sandor who seemed to have let Ronald's words drift over his head and was searching for something new to keep his attention. "No matter my scolding, he always says the most random things. You would think the man never socializes with other people."

Pulling out a bottle of his wine and placing it on Ronald's coffee table, Sandor asked, "So his "tower" is your favorite place?"

"The tower is always entertaining," Sansa laughed, "But the journey is not over. We have not reached the top of the tower yet! Follow me." She carefully travelled across the room pausing momentarily to admire a still life of flowers on a monumental canvas the size of a small horse.

If Sandor looked out of place in her studio the first time she saw him there, then he looked completely foreign in this space. Intent on following her, Sansa turned around in time to see him graze the top of his head against the hot air balloon ladder. He laughed in a way that Sansa would have described as delighted if it were not Sandor who did so.

Opening the window to the fire escape, Sandor mock bowed for Sansa to leave before him. He froze midway coming up from it. Following his gaze, Sansa blushed deeply to see the large oil portrait of her that was framed and displayed on the opposing wall. It was one of the only pieces that was not threatened to be covered up by something newer.

In the painting, she was nearly nude. Her arm was raised above her head to delicately hold back her curled, red hair from the profile of her face. The pale expanse of her neck and shoulder vulnerably exposed to any who looked. A large white cloth allowed her to maintain her modesty, though threateningly so.

"Oh please stop staring," Sansa managed to mumble feeling a sudden heat rush to her.

From across the room, Ronald put the receiver to his chest and called out, "You wanna buy that? I usually turn people down but maybe for you-"

"Of course he does not!" She pulled Sandor's arm through the window urging him to follow her. After a few more tugs, he finally peeled his eyes from the render to the living, breathing Sansa. He managed to look only mildly abashed.

Lifting her feet up one step and up the next, Sansa could feel the heat of his eyes on her again in a way she had not felt them since that moment in the hallway. It made her toes tingle.

"Welcome to the top of the tower," Sansa declared out of breath as Sandor climbed up after her.

The roof was empty besides a couple of forgotten potted plants and a few old, wooden chairs. Though it was a tall building, it did not come near in height with the surrounding buildings that stood to enclose them. Oranges and purples were spilled across the sky. Sounds of life bustling from the streets lifted to them.

They sat with their backs against the wall of the small room that enclosed the stairwell giving others access to the roof. Sandor set down the candles and the bottles of wine to pluck his lighter from his pocket. "So that's _the_ Ronald?" he asked as he lit the three candles while Sansa poured two healthy glasses.

"Yes." She handed him his.

"He seems nice enough. A little eccentric, " he paused to take a sip of wine, "but nice. You think he will sell me that painting of you? I have to say it is much more to my taste than a pinup."

"Absolutely not!"

They laughed together and fell into an easy silence.

The wine was sour but pleasant on her tongue. Beside her, Sandor lit a cigarette and sighed. Watching as the melted wax ran down the length of the candle in yellow streams, Sansa spoke in a small voice despite willing herself to put power behind it, "I am sorry that I cried all over your shirt like that earlier. It was silly of me. I should have been more professional and kept track of the time or at least called you to cancel."

Sandor ran his free thumb back and forth against the rim of his glass. His voice was gruff. "Don't be. Your brother was a good man, Sansa. He deserved to come home. So many of _my men_ deserved to come home. I would gladly go back right now and trade spots with any one of them."

"Were you also a paratrooper like Robb?" She asked turning and finding him staring intently at his glass as his wine swirled back and forth. Sansa held her own glass tightly in both hands.

"I was nothing like your brother. Enlisting in the War wasn't some divine duty for me. It was an escape from my shitty life. I expected to die over there…" His voice trailed off into almost a whisper harsh as it was.

Unsure of what to say to such a thing, Sansa decided to say nothing and let him continue if he wanted to like Scott or to bury it inside like most other men. She did not expect him to speak again but he did.

"I was an infantry man. A Gunnery Sergeant with fourty men under me and I had to fucking lead them onto Omaha beach. They all looked to me for strength but I knew I couldn't offer them much. I knew something was wrong before we even landed. Most of us did. That beach was a slaughter house waiting for us to pull up. Lost fifteen men that day. Most were still boys. Lost twice more over the next couple years. Every one of them had depended on me to lead them out of there." He took another drink for a good moment as though he too was surprised to be sharing this information then continued, "But _that's_ war… We're not all heroes like your brother. Some of us came back when we weren't supposed to."

Sansa felt her stomach drop. _Why had I not considered that he had lost people too._

Sansa thought about reaching out to hold his hand as he had done for her, but instead brought her legs up to her chest and looked down to her feet. "I had no idea, Sandor. Here I am carrying on about myself when..."

Sandor let out a long sigh and shifted to her and mimicked her position. Their knees were almost touching. "It's all fucked, Sansa, but we do the best we can, right? You shouldn't ever have to feel alone with it." He paused for a long while before he said, "You scared the shit out of me though."

She glanced over to see him looking down at her. In the dim candlelight his eyes were almost as black as coal, though even coal shines when hit with the right light. That sorrow she had seen earlier was there again, but this time he failed to conceal a shared pain that she knew he must also hold somewhere inside himself. It was a kinship of grief that can devour a person if they are not careful. The way he had held her earlier had told Sansa that Sandor understood her more than words might have. That he knew what it was like to feel alone and lost and that he understood. "Thank you, Sandor" she said watching how flames moved within his eyes.

His mouth twitched as he replied, "Anything for you, Red. Plus," he leaned back against the wall. "You said we were friends, yeah?"

Sansa felt her heart flutter. _Red. I like when he calls me that._ "I would like to be your friend very much."

"Good." He filled their glasses again.

They sat there and soaked in the remainder of the shifting dusk sky before the little remaining color melted away to a deep blue. Their shared silences were always comfortable for Sansa. Usually she felt a distressing urge to fill a lull in conversation but she had surprisingly grown to cherish these smaller moments with him. They made her feel like despite the untruth of it, she and him had time to just be. She closed her eyes and let herself breath in the night's air because it would be different the next morning.

From below came the unmistakable sound of a window being shoved open and was closely trailed by the song of a trumpet. The player blew a melancholic melody that was nonspecific. The type that came from the heart rather than sheet music and was played to ease the stress of a long day. To get lost amongst the waves of release. It was smooth and it was New York.

Sansa closed her eyes to let the notes dance across her sight. _Oh New York you are so cliche but I love you all the more for it._

Sandor barked a laugh that suggested he was thinking the same thing. Then he said, "Tell me about your family. What is this seal feeding sister doing? She was the one who called you last week, right?"

"Arya?" Sansa opened her eyes and laughed recalling her story of the train. "Yes, that was her! Somehow, she turned out to do exactly what we all expected of her, and that was to do nothing that we could have ever expected! She had no interest in college, but went overseas to France to take up fencing."

"Fencing? Really?" Sandor had such a look of shock on his face that she could not help herself from giggling. Most people reacted this way when she told them. How could they not imagine Arya to simply be a younger version of herself?

"We are complete opposites, I know. Always have been. She's excellent though," she said with pride. "Made a whole career out of competing professionally. I think she might start teaching lessons soon as well." Sansa took a healthy drink of her wine.

"She sounds wild."

Sansa clinked her glass against his. "She is a complete spitfire. Actually, I think you two would get along quite well."

Sandor tapped his glass twice back against hers. "I'd like to meet her when she comes then. Is it just you two or are there more?"

"With Robb there were six of us including our cousin, Jon who is how old Robb would be. Bran is eighteen and working in the offices for my father and Rickon is fifteen and still at boarding school doing God knows what. They are both wonderfully intelligent but Rickon does not apply himself. I would not be surprised if he runs off to live with Arya instead of finishing school."

"Big family."

"The house was never quiet growing up… What about your family?"

"I have no family. Besides Bronn I guess."

"Oh." Sansa never read anything about a mother or father or anyone when The Hound was written about, but that did not mean that she would have imagined that Sandor was alone. The thought made her sad. "How did you and Bronn meet?"

"Bronn was a stray we picked up some time after D-Day. He was separated from his company and just stuck with us. When we came back to the States, he decided to stay in New York with me instead of returning to Pittsburg."

Within the silence, Sansa's mind drifted to Arya and her upcoming visit. Would it be wise to introduce her to Sandor? Arya was one of the most attentive people Sansa had ever met. Would her sister judge her for their new friendship?

Sansa was lost in thoughts of the past and her predetermined future. In front of her, the candles emitted the friendliest of flames. They were just small enough to look like fingertips. Captured by the thought, Sansa let her own drift to the them. Her finger dusted over the top and around the side of one flame as she watched how the fire danced and fluttered. With a quickness she did not know he possessed, Sandor's hand lurched out and took hold of her pulling it from the small flames. He held her hand a second longer than he needed to and let her go. Swallowing hard, she searched his face, though he was not looking back at her. For the first time, she felt sorry for him, for the scars. The papers never disclosed how he got his scars but he had told her they were given to him. Whether it be from the War or not, Sansa knew not to ask such a question. He would tell her if he wanted to.

Sandor refilled his glass but once he realized he had emptied the bottle, he poured some from his glass into Sansa's only spilling a little bit onto the cement. At this point, she was arriving at the most pleasant state of warmth and fuzziness. "Mr. Hound, do you have some extravagant party you should be attending tonight?" Sansa mocked trying to clear a heaviness that was threatening to take over.

"Yep," he said nonchalantly.

"Really?" She sat up straighter. "Will you get in trouble for being absent? If I had known-"

Sandor looked at her like she suggested something crazy and waved his hand dismissively. "Get in trouble? With who, Bronn? He knows I hate them."

"You do? Why would you hate them when people must run at the chance to buy you drinks and give you gifts! Plus," Sansa added with a grin, "the women must be all over you."

She tapped his glass twice. He clinked hers once. Sansa felt another flutter inside her chest when their knuckles grazed.

With a loud snort he said, "They do and they don't, Red. It's The Hound some think they want. When I'm out in public I have to be him because _he's_ the one who gets the promotional deals and praise. Everyone hopes I'm just as mean and exciting as him. They like how The Hound barks. They want to talk about is how I feel about their other celebrities, and my contracts, and my upcoming fights." She could tell he was feeling the same fuzz as her by the way his speech was a little faster than usual.

"Oh..." she said.

This reminded Sansa of Margaery and how she had to put on a show when she went out to keep up a certain persona. A lot of people thought they knew exactly who Margaery Tyrell was without even knowing her personally. It did not matter if there was no truth in their depiction of her, it was what they already believed. Margaery rarely admitted it, but Sansa knew that even she found it tiring from time to time. "That has to become exhausting, being someone you are not."

Sandor ran his hands through his newly untied hair and said, "It is."

"Is that why you and Ruthe Wilder broke up?" Sansa immediately clapped her hands to her mouth mortified, but not soon enough to have halted the blurted words. _Shit shit shit._ She had not meant to say this aloud only think it. Whether it was the wine or because he was sharing more than she thought she would ever learn from him, she asked it.

"Don't worry your pretty face, Red I know what you are." Her expression must have looked even more dismayed because Sandor laughed harder than he had all night. "I saw the paper open to the gossip section before we ate those sandwiches last time." Sandor shifted to press his back into the wall and scooted himself so that he was more laying down than sitting. His head rested against his large left arm.

With a groan Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. _He must think I am just a silly girl who loves silly gossip. How could I ask such an intrusive question?_

"I, well- _Margaery_ is my best friend. We love to laugh at it all really. Half of what they write about her is absurd! You have to believe that I have the mind to understand that most of it is nowhere near legitimate."

"Oh you do?" Sandor peaked at her with a side eye then started picking at his thumbnail with his pointer finger. "Yeah well, the papers said we broke up because some failed joint movie contract. Bronn wouldn't stop following me around with the paper for a week after that one. Really it was all pretty mutual and a long time coming. Didn't make it any prettier. That part about her smashing my car was true. It had been bad longer than it had been good actually... A lot of those happy pictures had only been pretty lies. Ruthe was fun but she wanted all the excitement and riches of the fast life and none of the rest. Only wanted The Hound, heavyweight hopeful, not Sandor Clegane. Most of them are like that, you know?"

He lifted his head up to her as if he was making sure Sansa was still listening. Was he not used to people listening to him like this?

"I've come to learn that about those people over the past few years. Hound. Hound. Hound. Sometimes it's fucking easier to just give them what they want because it doesn't matter anyways."

Sansa frowned upset that a woman would treat him that way. Sad that people did not seem to want to know him. "That is awful, Sandor."

He finished his glass and set it down between them. Under the moon he seemed younger than his years somehow. A little less imposing. Looking up at her, he said, "In a few more years it won't matter much. I can't fight forever, right?"

With a sigh she agreed with him. "No, I suppose not."

By then all traces of the day had departed from the sky. Lights had been turned off in the office buildings and on in apartments. Though the city was too bright to properly see the stars, the Moon was hovering amongst the tall buildings listening in on conversations. She was a nosy but beautiful waning crescent tonight. A time for surrender and letting fate control what comes next.

Sansa, not sure if this was for herself or for him said, "When I was a girl I used to pretend that the Moon was only for me. That she was my guide and watched over me. I imagined that I could be a princess up on the Moon and rule all the magical creatures that lived there. I wondered what she would taste like if I reached out and plucked her from the night sky. Would she taste different in the morning? Then as I grew up, I had left her behind forgotten, discarded. Two years ago she came back to me though, the way old friends do despite, well, everything. I would wish on her to take me away. Far away. Have you ever wished on the Moon, Sandor?" He had risen to sit up when she was speaking, his hand brushing against hers doing so. She could still feel the warmth from it; could feel the warmth coming from the rest of him.

His voice burned low like the candles. "I thought you could only wish on shooting stars?"

"You can wish on whatever you want," she breathed.

"What are you wishing for now, Red?" he mumbled as he let his fingers run through the length of her hair, sending a shiver up her spine. She closed her eyes and let herself believe that it was only her and him and the Moon.

Suddenly, two young boys burst through the door with a loud bang knocking over one of the candles and snuffing out the flame.

Sandor huffed in an amused sort of way and Sansa felt herself turn red, her mind racing. They gathered their things, Sansa the toppled candles and Sandor the empty wine bottle and bag with Sansa's wine. Silence followed them down the fire escape to the painter's open window. Taking the steps with extra care, she wondered if she would have told him what she was wishing for. There was a rule not to tell a person what you wished. Would it have mattered if she told him if it would never come true regardless?

As Sansa climbed inside she spotted Ronald standing in front of the large flower canvas with a look of concentration set on his face. She turned to Sandor and put her finger to her lips. This was a face she was well acquainted with and knowing Ronald, he would not want to be disturbed in this moment. The door clicked quietly as she shut it behind them.

Outside, the wine was leaving her head as they walked along the sidewalk together. The city did not relax after a hard day but instead grew more alive. The lights or cars rushed by. Smells from restaurants and bars they passed by spilled onto the streets. On the corner was a nightclub named "Jonny Blues". From inside blared a wall of sound from a big band. Two young men came barrelling out of the front door almost running into Sandor. The streetlight had turned red stopping them from crossing.

"Shit Barry look, it's The Hound!" the man in a rumpled suit yelled to his friend.

Sansa was impressed that these men could even recognize Sandor for how drunk they appeared and for how strongly they reeked of alcohol. Using each other to stand upright, the one by the name of Barry slurred, "Hound, man, I'm a big fan of what you do in the ring. Boxed featherweight in college myself but not very well."

"You don't say," Sandor said, glancing at the traffic light visabelly willing it to change green.

The man in the rumpled suit put his arm around Barry and nearly yelled, "Good luck for the next one Hound! Bobby Smalls has been looking really tough in his past two fights!"

The light thankfully turned and Sandor put his hand on the small of Sansa's back to guide her across the street saying, "Thanks boys, I'll see you around."

They both looked like their mothers had taken candy from them and Barry called, "Don't you want to stay for a drink?"

Sansa turned to give them a small wave but they had already stopped watching their retreat and began mock punching each other.

It was a block from her apartment when a car backfired somewhere ahead of them. Or was it behind them? Before Sansa even had time to jump, she felt herself being pulled into the alley on her left and pushed to the ground. She landed on her rear hard enough for a wince to escape her. Recovering from the shock of the situation, Sansa realized that Sandor was crouching on the ground in front of her with his arms on the wall above her head trying to create some sort of protection from an unseen enemy.

"Sandor," she said quietly but his eyes looked far away as though he was waiting for another bang that was warranted. Sansa placed her hand on his chest and repeated, "Sandor," with a little more force in her voice now. This time he looked down to her but seemed to not really see her. This scared her.

"Sandor, everything is okay. We are okay. It was- it was a car. Only a car." This time he squeezed his eyes closed and let out a ragged breath.

He stood abruptly and took hold of both of her hands to help her stand as well. He would not look her in the face. The shame in his voice was thick, "Sansa I am so, so sorry. I just- did I hurt you?"

"No I am fine, I think." She said, but truthfully, she was a little frightened.

Turning from her, Sandor put his head down and looked at the dirty sidewalk. "I should get you home."

She hurried to follow him out to the sidewalk and to keep up with his quickened pace. "Sandor it is alright. You did not hurt me-"

This time he looked into her eyes with a ferocity that she had not seen from him since she made the mistake of comparing his scars to birthmarks. "No it's not alright," he spat.

Biting her lip she asked, "Does this happen often?" But he did not answer her. It was as though a giant stone monster walked beside her. Sansa felt terrible. This was not something that she knew how to deal with. This was not something she knew how to fix. With a mind empty of words, she reached out and took his hand in hers like he had for her. She could tell his whole body was stiff just from the tension in the hand that did not hold hers back.

After a few more moments of Sansa pondering if she had made a mistake, she let out a breath she did not know she was holding when Sandor grasped her hand back and visibly relaxed.

They walked hand in hand for the remainder of the block as Tom came into view. Her hand felt small in his. Warm.

"I can handle her from here Mr. Clegane," Tom called out to them.

Sansa giggled despite what had just happened. Maybe the wine _was_ still in her head. Maybe it was the protective tone in Tom's voice. With a small squeeze of her hand Sandor said, "This is your stop, Red." He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. "You better get going before Tom comes and yells at me."

"I will call you," she managed to say despite feeling as though there was no air for her.

Sandor did a double take between her and Tom who was coughing from a distance. "You will?" he asked.

"We need to reschedule your session."

"Of course," he said. She realized he was still holding her hand but dropped it as he yelled, "Alright Tom I'm leaving!" Sansa turned from him to see Tom coming towards them.

Having reached her, Tom said, "Was he troubling you, Miss Sansa?"

Sansa had to stifle a laugh as she visualized sweet Tom standing up to Sandor if that had been the case. "No Tom," she said. "Everything is perfectly fine. Thank you for always looking out for me." She looped her arm through his as they strolled to the apartment entrance.


End file.
